J 


ILLUSTRATED  BY 


ESSIE  G.SAWTELLE.  \ 


THE  HEROINE  OF  '49 


A  STORY 


OF  THE  Pf\GIFIG  GOfVST. 


By  MRS.  M.  P.  SAWTELLE,  M.  D. 

Of  San  Francisco,  Cal. 


Copyright,  1891,  by  Mrs.  M.  P.  Sawtelle,  M.  D.;  in  the  office  of 
the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 

ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


PRESS   NOTICES  OF  THE   FIRST   EDITION. 


We  herewith  return  thanks  for  the  many  complimentary  notcies  received 
from  the  press,  and  give  a  few  extracts  from  some  of  the  leading  newspapers: 

"The  story  presents  a  realistic  picture  of  frontier  life  in  California."— 
Chicago  Herald. 

"  The  brave,  young  heroine,  with  a  courage  so  sublime  as  to  seem  ideal, 
passes  through  her  tremendous  trials,  and  by  lofty  courage  and  indomitable 
perseverance  wins  her  way  to  a  sweet,  noble  and  successful  life."— Seattle 
Press-Times. 

"  It  portrays  in  a  very  striking  manner  some  of  the  evil  effects  of  the  law — 
approved  ethics  of  pioneer  days.  The  entire  work  is  alive  with  the  journalistic 
touch  and  genuine  newspaper  instinct."— Stockton  (Cal.)  Mail. 

"  Her  characters  are  drawn  from  real  life,  and  the  incidents  of  the  story 
give  a  glimpse  of  domestic  life  on  the  Pacific  coast  during  the  days  of  its  early 
settlement.  She  writes  with  feeling,  and  often  with  power." — 8.  F.  Bulletin. 

"She  has  produced  a  graphic  sketch  of  pioneer  days  on  this  coast.  The 
book  depicts  a  life  which  is  now  only  a  memory  ^among  the  generation  that  is 
fast  passing  away,  and,  therefore,  aside  from  its  ethical  purpose,  it  has  a.  value  as  a 
picture  of  the  pioneer  days."— S.  F.  Chronicle. 

"  In  her  most  interesting  book,  Dr.  Sawtelle  has  given  a  vivid  picture  of 
the  conditions  which  prevailed  and  which  governed  society  life  in  the  early  days 
on  the  Pacific  coast.  All  this  she  has  portrayed  with  a  strong,  true  hand  and  an 
unflinching  purpose,  so  that  the  book  stands  outside  the  pale  of  romance  asa 
social  and  ethical  study  of  the  relations  of  men  and  women,  of  the  duty  of 
parents  to  children,  and  of  the  further  relation  of  the  government  to  all  its 
wards.  In  all  that  she  has  treated  of,  there  is  a  feminine  delicacy  of  truth  that 
makes  the  book  attractive  in  spirit,  while  it  is  none  the  less  strong  in  pur 
pose."—  SALLIE  JOY  WHIT*  of  Boston  Herald. 

"  The  book  is  well  worth  reading." — S.  F.  Evening  Post. 

"The  material  existed  for  an  excellent  story,  and  Dr.  Sawtelle  certainly 
has  made  good  use  of  it.  The  book  is  one  that  will  do  much  good  if  widely  cir 
culated." — Los  Angeles  Herald. 

»  "  She  writes  with  dramatic  power  and  tells  her  story  well.  The  heroine  is 
a  high  type  of  American  girlhood,  and  develops  into  a  most  charming  character 
of  perfect  womanhood." — S.  F.  News-Letter. 

"A  California  novel  of  wide  merit— one  which  points  a  moral  which  few 
authors  would  assume  to  point.  It  has  a  force  and  vigor  which  appeals  to  the 
strong  mind.  A  good  book  that  can  be  profitably  read  by  all." — Ukiah  Press. 

"  This  tale  of  pioneer  days  in  California,  and  of  those  who  cast  their  lot 
among  the  gold-hunters,  is  pleasantly  touched  upon  and  worthy  of  perusal. 
The  work  is  a  splendid  one  and  should  be  read  by  every  one,  whether  pioneers 
of  the  golden  state  or  not."— Si.  Helena  Star. 

"  'The  Heroine  of  '49,'  a  story  by  Mary  P.  Sawtelle,  M.  D.,  has  met  with  a 
large  sale,  and  already  a  new  edition  is  called  for.  It  will  be  revised,  beautifully 
illustrated  and  richly  bound.  The  story  is  full  of  interesting  incidents,  the 
characters  being  a  young  prospector  seeking  for  gold,  an  Indian  maiden,  and 
the  usual  sturdy  persons  of  a  mining  camp."— Argonaut. 


WHAT    THE    CRITICS     SAY. 


11  Why  hold  the  government  to  account  for  infant  girls  being  married  to 
secure  land?" 

Let  the  government  deal  as  honorably  with  its  women  as  its  men.  If  it 
gives  a  donation  of  land  to  women,  why  tack  on  the  damaging  clause — "all 
married  women?"  Is  there  a  case  on  record  where  a  land  law  was  ever  weighed 
down  with  the  clause—"  all  married  men?" 

A  matured,  brainy  physician  writes :  "  I  was  overwhelmed  with  rage,  from 
cover  to  cover,  but  the  book  will  be  read.  It  will  change  the  laws  of  property 
and  marriage  for  women,  and  will  be  translated  into  every  civilized  tongue." 

A  minister's  wife  writes:  "Why  didn't  you  make  the  Indian  Caweecha  kill 
Miser?" 

For  the  delectation  of  the  sanguinary  critics,  the  Indian  will  enact  the 
murder  of  Miser  in  the  forthcoming  drama  of  "  The  Heroine  of  '49." 

A  learned  gentleman  writes,  desiring  to  know  why  we  did  not  write  like 
Shakespeare. 

Another  one  complains  that  it  is  "  not  equal  to  George  Eliot's  '  Mill  on  the 
Floss'  "—another  "that  it  is  not  as  artistic  as  Helen  Hunt  Jackson's  'Ramona'  "— 
and  all  with  one  accord  declare  that  "  Mrs.  Murdstone  is  a  fool." 

She  is  a  true,  representative  American  mother,  my  dear  lady  critics. 

Another  critic  writes:  "The  best  passage  in  the  book,  or  perhaps  in  the 
English  language,  is  where  Jean  says  to  her  gray-haired  friends,  whose  hearts 
are  true  as  steel,  that '  all  the  laws  and  law-makers  in  the  world  can't  ruin  me ; 
ril  still  be  myself.1 " 

Another  critic  writes :  "  Why  arraign  a  man  before  the  bar  of  public  opinion 
for  deeds  committed  forty  years  ago,  when,  no  doubt,  he  has  repented  of  them 
long  ago?"  If  he  has  repented,  let  him  strip  off  his  befouled  ermine,  worn  so 
long  that  the  stench  reaches  to  high  heaven,  and  has  tainted  every  other  bench 
in  the  land,  casting  a  stigma  upon  the  very  name  of  judge,  that  no  poor  words 
of  ours,  though  brewed  in  bitterest  gall,  could  ever  do.  Let  him  pay  back  the 
ill-gotten  gain  to  its  rightful  owners  he  so  basely  wronged,  and  do  what  poor 
right  is  still  in  his  power  to  do;  let  him  do  it  now  before  he  enters  into  the  dark 
unknown,  where  hissing  devils  will  whisper  remorse  forever  in  his  ears,  and 
where,  before  his  unrepenting  eyes,  red-hot  fiends  will  tear  clinging  babes  from 
tender  mothers'  arms  f  orevermore. 


ace. 


"AN  EYE  FOR  AN  EYE,  and  a  tootli  for  a  tooth,"  is  the 
old  Mosaic  law  that  has  filled  the  world  with  admira 
tion;  the  equity  that  admits  of  no  fine  balancing  or 
quibbling  with  the  scales  of  justice — "a  consummation 
devoutly  to  be  wished." 

This  little  work  was  undertaken  with  the  hope  of 
awakening  this  sense  of  equity  in  regard  to  our  girls, 
and  placing  them  as  nature  has  done,  on  a  fair  footing 
with  their  brothers. 

People  who  are  stung  by  the  conviction  that  they 
have  aided  in  the  great  wrong  of  inveigling  young 
maidens  into  early  marriages,  will  perhaps  denounce 
us  as  having  exceeded  the  bounds  of  cool  philosophy 
in  our  criticism  on  the  early  marriages  of  girls.  But 
the  first  dawn  of  reason  brought  to  our  mind  the  full 
tide  of  the  overwhelming  falsehood  that  girls  arrive  at 
the  ags  of  maturity  sooner  than  boys — girls  being 
legally  of  age  at  eighteen  and  boys  at  twenty-one — to 
gether  with  its  evil  effects  upon  the  individual,  as  well 
as  upon  the  whole  human  race;  and  "though  the 
heavens  fall,"  we  are  compelled  to  speak  the  truth,  and 
not  complacently  smile  at  this  monster  lie  any  longer. 

The  laws  governing  the  property  of  girls,  as  well  as 
those  of  the  marriage  rites,  are  based  most  basely  on 
this  idea.  The  wonder  is,  that  a  fact  so  wide  of  the 
truth  and  fraught  with  so  much  evil  and  not  an  atom  of 
good,  could  acquire  such  a  hold  on  honest  people  and 
not  find  someone  to  refute  it  long  ago. 

We  defy  any  physiologist  to  find,  in  the  whole  realm 
jf  nature,  an  atom  of  fact  that  will  substantiate  the 
lie  that  girls  grow  faster  than  boys.  We  defy  a  person 


6  PREFACE. 

living  to  bring  an  instance  of  one  case,  from  an  ele 
phant  to  a  mouse,  including  the  human  race,  where  the 
parents  can  produce  male  offspring  that  will  mature 
less  rapidly  than  the  female  offspring.  Nature  would 
have  to  invent  a  new  kind  of  parentage  before  she 
could  accomplish  this  great  feat.  Let  any  physician 
refute  this  who  can,  but  let  him  not  forget  that  the 
author  still  holds  a  pen.  There  are  profound  phy 
siological  laws  governing  growth  and  maturity  that  few 
people  could  be  made  to  comprehend.  Even  the  aver 
age  physician  would  have  to  be  better  versed  in  physi 
ology  than  he  is,  we  are  sorry  to  say,  before  he  could 
grasp  these  great  truths  that  are  before  him,  working 
out,  with  unerring  precision,  the  great  laws  of  growth, 
maturity  and  decay. 

Just  as  the  last  drop  of  ink  is  drained  from  our  pen, 
there  comes  through  the  papers  a  wail  from  a  great 
statesman,  because  forsooth,  a  woman  older  than  his 
son  has  inveigled  the  youth  of  seventeen  into  marriage. 
The  blizzard  of  early  marriage  seems  to  have  struck 
the  astute  stateman  hard,  making  his  howl  of  pain  reach 
from  Maine  to  Oregon.  Though  thought  by  some  to  be 
the  one  man  of  brains  in  the  United  States,  and  though 
his  giant  intellect  is  always  bubbling  and  boiling  like 
the  witches'  caldron,  for  the  good  of  the  people,  yet 
the  comforting  thought  has  never  entered  his  head 
that  "  What  is  sauce  for  the  goose  is  sauce  for  the 
gander." 

If  every  girl  in  America  were  married  at  seventeen, 
there  would  not  have  been  such  a  sensation  as  has  been 
raised  over  this  seventeen-year-old  weakling — because 
he  is  a  boy  and  will  some  day  be  a  man.  It  would  be 
most  absurd  for  one  to  suppose  for  a  moment  that 
this  great  statesman  could  waste  his  time  in  better 
ing  the  condition  of  women.  Women!  What  are 
women?  Nothing  but  the  mothers  of  men. 

We  are  not  a  statesman  and  haven't  been  attitudinizing 
for  the  last  thirty  years  for  the  highest  position  in  the 
gift  of  the  people,  yet  we  know  enough  to  tell  you  that 


PREFACE.  T 

you  had  better  marry  your  sons  a  thousand  to  one,  at 
seventeen,  than  your  daughters  at  that  tender  age— and 
we  shall  ever  pray  that  the  idea  may  be  instilled  into 
the  hearts  of  the  people  till  every  parent  whose  daughter 
is  married  at  seventeen  will  be  as  painfully  shocked 
as  this  man  was  at  the  marriage  of  his  son  at  that 
immature  age. 

The  characters  in  the  story  are  drawn  from  real  life. 
No  living  author  could  have  produced  them  without 
witnessing  the  scenes  depicted  in  the  work.  It  covers 
a  new,  romantic,  broad  field.  The  characters  are 

fDod  and  bad,  just  as  they  existed;  Murdstone  being 
rst  cousin  to  Dickens's  Murdstone,  in  David  Copper- 
field.  Everybody  is  familiar  with  that  hard  character. 
This  Murdstone  has,  however,  with  bible  in  hand,  de 
termined  to  grind  some  good  from  out  his  own  charac 
ter,  and  there  is  hope  for  him.  The  world  is  as  full  of 
Murdstones  as  it  is  of  Smiths,  and  the  name  should  be 
used  oftener  to  show  up  that  hard  type  of  man.  It  is 
the  intention  of  the  author  to  try  to  make  people  see 
the  wrong  they  do  to  children  by  beating  their  flesh 
to  enlighten  or  cultivate  their  brains.  The  thing  is 
vile,  and  parental  authority  a  crime  ten  times  to  one, 
that  should  be  abolished  from  families;  love  only,  pa 
rental  love,  guiding  the  childhood  of  our  nation. 

At  the  request  of  some  upright  judges  and  their 
friends  who  thought  the  name  "Boughtup  "  too  sug 
gestive,  we  have  changed  the  name  to  Judge  Didit. 

It  was  never  our  intention  to  cast  a  slur  on  any 
honorable  court,  but  we  would  like  to  ask,  if  it  is  right 
to  thrust  a  person  into  jail  for  contempt  of  an  honest 
court,  then  is  it  not  equally  right  to  thrust  the  whole 
world  into  jail  if  it  does  not  hold  in  highest  contempt  a 
dishonorable  judge? 

Judge  Didit  and  Cursica  Miser  are  characters  too 
often  met  with,  alas,  in  real  life,  and  if  they  did  not 
exist  as  they  are  portrayed,  or  act  as  they  are  repre 
sented,  the  sun  never  hung  in  the  heavens. 

It  is  wonderful  to  note  how  the  transaction  of  eight 


$  PREFACE. 

thousand  dollars,  passing  from  the  one  man  to  the 
other,  left  the  one  in  the  deepest  obscurity,  while  the 
other  took  the  money  and  bloomed  out  where  his  das 
tardly  proceedings  have  made  landmarks  all  along  a 
life  brimful  of  iniquities  perpetrated  upon  his  fellows. 
Feeling  the  necessity  of  a  historic  sketch  giving  at 
least  a  glimpse  of  the  family  life  of^the  first  settlers  on 
the  Pacific  Coast,  this  work  was  undertaken  with  the 
hope  that  possibly  its  incompleteness  may  be  the  means 
©f  inspiring  some  one  to  write  a  more  perfect  and  com 
plete  account  of  this  period,  knowing  how  soon  time 
obliterates  every  vestige  of  the  past;  believing  full  well 
that  a  time  will  come  when  a  people  enjoying  the  mag 
nificence  and  marvelous  wealth  of  these  Pacific  States 
will  look  back  with  hearts  filled  with  gratitude  to  the 
people  who  laid  the  foundation  for  it  all,  made  sacrifices 
and  endured  privations  that  would  be  difficult  for  any 
historian,  however  accurate  or  gifted,  to  portray,  and 
any  account  of  those  days,  however  imperfect,  will  be 
held  sacred  by  them  forever. 

THE  AUTHOR. 


THE  HEROINE  OF  '49. 


CHAPTER  I. 

JEWELS   OR   NO   JEWELS. 

It  was  the  winter  of  1871  in  New  York  City.  "We  were 
at  dinner  in  the  richly  draped,  warm  dining-room  of 
the  brownstone-front  mansion  of  the  banker  Barron. 
The  cheerful  warmth  of  the  room  contrasted  strongly 
with  the  outside  sleet  and  snow  that  was  just  beginning 
to  fall;  it  gave  a  soft  glow  to  the  silken  draperies  and 
bright  mirrors  that  served  as  doors  on  the  china 
closets,  and  extended  from  ceiling  to  floor,  reflecting 
the  warm  light  of  the  fire,  the  stately  clock  above  it 
that  told  of  the  flight  of  time  in  a  chime  of  bells,  and 
the  fine,  old,  carved  oaken  side-board,  with  its  antique 
Persian  ewer  and  tray  of  exquisite  beauty,  and  its 
dainty  blue  and  gold  china;  for  Mr.  Barron  was  not  a 
poor  banker — he  was  a  millionaire. 

Jean  Reining  had  been  at  the  home  of  her  queenly 
sister-in-law  a  whole  week,  stupid  mortal,  and  had 
not  observed  that  in  eating  soup  (if  such  esthetic 
mortals  could  be  said  to  eat  soup  and  not  absorb  it) 
they  dipped  the  soup  away  from  them  instead  of  to 
wards  them  in  conveying  it  to  the  mouth.  We  had 
finished  soup,  however,  and  fish  and  fowl  had  been 
brought,  and  Mr.  Barron  was  carving  with  that  ease 
that  comes  only  with  practice.  Madam  Barron  sat 
waiting,  resplendent  in  her  beauty  and  jewels,  flashing 
her  wit  at  Jean  Reming  She  said:  "You  will  write 


10  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

a  story  and  put  us  all  in  it — the  bears  of  the  Sierras 
and  the  bankers  of  New  York."  And  Mr.  Ban-on 
remarked:  "  Bears  are  good  to  write  about,  I  am  sure. 
I  have  just  bought  a  fine  skin  for  a  carriage  robe  that 
is  rich,  black  and  glossy."  "  Perhaps,'7  said  Madam, 
"  Mr.  Barron  will  lend  you  the  robe  to  enable  you  to 
give  a  more  accurate  description  of  the  bears/'  "  Oh, 
that  would  be  tame  indeed,"  said  Jean,  brightly.  "  I 
shall  have  real  wild  bears,  perhaps  not  in  *  droves  of 
five  hundred/  as  Sam  Slimmins  describes  them  in 
'  Picturesque  Sierras,1  but  one,  now  and  again,  roaming 
in  dignified  solitude,  helping  himself  to  acorns — a 
harmless,  proper  creature  enough  when  you  do  not 
venture  to  encroach  upon  his  dominions.  My  ideal 
bear  would  never  wander  into  this  great  city  and 
molest  you." 

"  What  is  the  title  of  your  book  to  be,  Jean  ?  "  in 
quired  Madam  Barron. 

"  Now,  really,  I  do  not  know  what  to  call  the  book; 
it's  the  most  puzzling  question  I  will  have  to  grapple 
with,"  answered  Jean,  feeling  that  she  was  being 
laughed  at,  and  wishing  that  Madam  had  her  dinner 
0n  her  plate  so  that  she  could  give  her  attention  to 
that  and  not  be  able  to  talk  any  more,  when  to  Jean's 
relief,  Madam  said,  with  a  little  laugh,  "  I  have  it,  I 
will  help  you  this  much,  call  it  '  Why  is  this  Thus? ' 

"Goodjenough,"  answered  Jean  with  a  smile.  "  The 
book,  if  it  is  ever  written,  shall  be  called  by  your  title," 

"  How  soon  shall  you  publish  it?  "  asked  Mr.  Barron, 
"  I  have  promised  Mark  Steger  that  I  will  take  one 
hundred  copies  of  his  book  that  he  is  writing,  entitled 
*  How  Will  it  End  ?  '  and  I  will  do  as  well  by  you." 

"  I  shall  be  proud  to  have  so  good  a  reader,  and  will 
order  the  bookseller  to  send  you  a  hundred  copies," 
said  Jean,  plunging  into  her  dinner  with  an  appetite 
that  her  sister-in-law's  banter  had  only  sharpened. 

The  two  sisters-in-law  were  as  unlike  as  could 
well  be.  Madam  Barron  was  a  woman  of  thirty 
years,  with  steel-gray  eyes,  dark  hair,  a  Grecian  nose, 


JEWELS  OR  NO  JEWELS.  11 

perfect  features,  and  a  complexion  that  rivaled  a  rose 
in  its  fine  tones.  She  was  stately  in  her  carriage,  with 
a  touch  of  languor  scarcely  definable,  and  yet  when  you 
came  to  know  her,  you  would  see  that  this  love  of  ease 
entered  largely  into  her  character,  giving  strong  color 
to  all  her  acts.  Her  dress  was  of  soft,  pearl-gray  silk, 
one  of  Worth's,  costing  anywhere  between  three  and 
five  hundred  dollars.  On  her  well-poised  head,  with 
its  wealth  of  rich,  dark  hair,  hovered  a  dainty  gold  but 
terfly,  with  eyes  of  costly  diamonds,  its  outspread  wings 
seeming  to  flutter  against  her  braids;  diamonds  fas 
tened  soft  lace  at  her  throat. 

Madam  Barren  had  been  a  poor  girl,  too,  in  her 
childhood,  but  she  had  an  ambitious  aunt,  who  thought 
it  cheaper  to  spend  one  summer  at  Saratoga  than  to 
care  for  her  handsome  niece  many  summers  in  the 
humdrum  town  they  lived  in.  Sure  enough,  one  outing 
did  the  business.  Mr.  Barron  saw  the  beautiful  Celia 
at  the  opening  ball  of  the  season,  danced  with  her 
twice,  and  every  mamma  there  decided  the  g  i  had  won 
her  prize  before  the  evening  closed,  and  the  gay  throng 
had  passed  from  the  bright  scene  into  oblivion,  to  be 
again  reunited,  walking,  driving,  boating,  dancing  again. 
O,  the  happy,  merry  time !  Mr.  Barron  had  only  a 
few  days  to  spend  from  his  business.  Celia  was  far 
too  pretty  a  girl  to  leave  un trammeled  by  an  engage 
ment.  Her  aunt  was  interviewed,  Celia  sought,  and  a 
carefully  arranged  engagement  made.  Mr.  Barron 
always  declared  that  he  had  to  make  love  to  his  wife 
all  their  married  life  because  he  had  had  no  time  to  do 
the  usual  amount  of  courting  before,  and  surely  he 
always  looked  the  lover  and  she  the  happy  bride. 
The  aunt  was  the  happiest  mortal  alive,  saying 
often: 

"Supposing I  had  kept  that  splendid  creature  hid  up 
in  that  mountain  village  of  Tuckertown,  you  would 
never  have  had  such  a  wife." 

"  O,  yes,  I  should,"  declared  Mr.  Barron.     "  I  never 


12  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

would  have  married  any  other  girl  than  your  niece, 
Mrs.  Mulford.  I'd  have  gone  fishing  for  trout  in  Tuck- 
ertown  mill-ponds,"  heartily  insisted  Mr.  Barron,  "  but 
I  should  have  found  Celia." 

The  only  thing  that  could  be  said  to  mar  the  ap 
pointment  of  their  elegant  home  and  the  seeming  hap 
piness  of  their  marriage  was  that  there  never  came  any 
little  Barrens  and  Barronesses  to  add  to  their  great 
happiness;  so  to  amuse  themselves,  they  played  that 
Jean's  little  golden-haired  Dot  was  their  very  own, 
when  mamma  Jean  was  not  near  to  hear.  The  little 
lady  would  enter  into  the  fun  with  as  much  zest  as  her 
uncle  and  auntie  did.  They  adopted  her  in  their 
hearts,  bought  her  dresses  that  suited  her  type  of 
beauty,  and  petted  her  without  stint.  Every  day  her 
loveliness  increased,  and  she  grew  more  charming  in 
her  childlike  ways.  All  their  fondness  and  caressing, 
however  injudiciously  lavished  upon  her,  instead  of 
spoiling  her,  only  brought  out  the  more  her  eweet  and 
tender  nature,  as  she  nestled  in  the  hearts  of  all  who 
saw  her.  Dot  had  hair  like  spun  gold  in  the  sunlight. 
It  fell  in  heavy  waves  all  over  her  shoulders,  reaching 
below  her  sash,  where  it  clustered  in  great  heavy  ring 
lets  that  would  have  delighted  the  soul  of  a  Titian. 
Amie,  the  French  maid,  might  brush  it  ever  so  straight, 
and  in  a  two  minutes'  romp  it  would  curl  up  in 
those  great,  luscious  curls  at  the  ends,  in  the 
most  bewitching  way.  Dot  had  large  eyes  like 
her  mother,  but  they  were  blue,  like  her  Auntie 
Barren's.  Her  nose  was  slightly  retroussb,  with  broad 
nostrils  that  indicated  good  breathing  capacity,  and 
insures  to  any  animal  good  health.  She  had  chubby 
cheeks  and  a  funny  little  mouth  that  she  could  kiss 
very  sweetly  with,  and  with  which  she  played  the 
diplomat  in  the  most  remarkable  way;  these  kisses 
deciding  whether  she  should  be  a  poor  little  girl  and 
live  with  Mama  Jean  all  her  life,  or  be  the  sole  heiress 
of  her  Uncle  Barron,  and  always  stay  with  Auntie 


JEWELS   OR  NO  JEWELS.  13 

Barren.  Dot  was  a  tall  child  for  her  five  years,  as 
well  rounded  in  limb  and  firm  of  flesh  as  any  young 
filly  that  ever  won  a  race.  No  sculptor  could  ask  for 
a  finer  model;  there  was  strength,  endurance,  delicacy, 
perfection.  The  soft,  velvety  skin,  glowing  with  health, 
was  not  too  white,  but  gave  promise  that  a  tinge  of 
the  olive  from  Mamma  Jean's  dark  eyes,  hair  and  skin, 
would  assert  itself  in  the  little  lady,  and  make  for  her 
a  wealth  of  rarest  beauty  when  she  grew  to  woman 
hood.  All  the  ills  that  children  are  usually  tormented 
with  had  touched  her  lightly,  as  water  touches  a  duck's 
back,  and  rolled  off,  much  the  same  way,  leaving  her 
bright,  fresh,  sunny  as  a  great  luscious  La  France  rose 
bud,  giving  promise  of  a  long,  strong,  happy  life,  as  a 
morn  in  August  gives  promise  of  sunshine. 

One  evening  as  Madam  Barron  and  Jean  sat  alone 
in  the  library,  Madame  said  in  confidential,  sisterly 
tones:  u  Jean,  my  dear,  I  never  in  my  life  saw  a  hand 
and  arm  so  exquisitely  molded  as  yours  is,"  and  Jean 
raised  her  big  brown  eyes  and  answered  in  charming 
frankness:  "  You  surprise  and  please  me.  If  you  were 
anybody  else,  my  dear  sister,  I  should  think  that  you 
were  flattering.  If  I  have  a  grain  of  vanity  about  me 
you  have  touched  it.  Our  family  historian  has  lately 
chronicled  the  fact  that  our  English  grandmothers 
\vere  fond  ot  their  shapely  fingers,  and  really  I  think 
it  is  something  to  be  proud  of." 

"  Indeed,  Jeau,'you  should  wear  jewels,"  said  Mrs. 
Burron;  and  poor  Jean  looked  up  with  her  great  eyes 
a  little  saddened  and  answered: 

"Oh,  I  never  could." 

Mrs.  Barron  thought  that  she  meant  she  could  not 
afford  the  expense  of  jewels,  and  said: 

"  Oh,  never  mind,  my  dear,  I  am  going  to  Tiffany's 
next  week  to  get  some  beautiful  diamonds,  and  as  I 
have  so  many  myself,  I  shall  deem  it  a  great  favor  if 
you  will  accept  them." 

"  I  appreciate  your  kindness,  my  dear  sister.     I  fear 


14  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

you  do  not  understand  me.  I  cannot  wear  jewels.  My 
nerves  are  sensitive.  Perhaps  I  may  be  possessed  of 
the  same  feeling  that  men  have  about  jewels;  you  see, 
yourself,  they  do  not  wear  them,"  said  Jean  in  her 
directness,  being  half  afraid,  all  the  while,  that  she 
would  offend  Madam  Barron,  and  so  went  on — 

"  I  think,  I  get  as  much  enjoyment  in  seeing  other 
women  wearing  ornaments,  and,  perhaps,  more  than 
they  do.  I  enjoy  the  sparkle  of  diamonds,"  and  was 
just  about  to  add  that  she  did  not  like  to  see  orna 
ments  in  the  ears,  but  remembering  in  time,  that 
Madam  Barron  had  worn  such  heavy  rings  in  her  ears 
that  one  had  worn  its  way  through  the  lobe  of  the  ear 
leaving  a  horrid  deformity,  she  refrained  from  saying 
that  she  thought  it  was  a  piece  of  barbarity  to  have 
holes  pierced  in  the  flesh  for  the  purpose  of  attaching 
ornaments  to  the  person. 

"  Don't  allow  me  to  impress  you  with  the  idea  that 
I  do  not  wish  to  appear  well — no  ones  cares  more 
for  personal  attractiveness  than  I,"  said  Jean  quietly, 
"  but  it  is  impossible  for  me  to  wear  gold  bands 
pressing  on  the  delicate  tissues  of  my  fingers. 
I  have  tried  it,  and  they  suffocate  me.  I  am 
sensitive.  I  like  soft  laces,  and  light,  warm  cashmeres 
to  touch  my  flesh — something  like  those  worn  by 
the  women  of  the  Orient  would  suit  me."  Jean  was 
feeling  that  she  was  getting  farther  and  farther  from 
her  sister-in-law's  idea  of  what  was  proper  for  women 
of  culture  and  refinement  to  wear,  and  so  she  queried : 

"  If  I  had  all  the  jewels  in  Tiffany's  great  storehouse, 
what  do  you  think  I  would  do  with  them?  I  would 
sell  them,  as  he  does,  but  I  would  not  take  the  money 
and  buy  more.  I  would  build  a  great  work-house,  a 
sort  of  emergency  establishment,  where  the  laboring 
classes  when  they  were  thrown  out  of  employment 
would  find  work  and  be  sure  of  their  daily  bread,  until 
they  could  get  their  old  work  back  again  or  secure 
better  occupation;  where  women  who  had  lost  their 


JEWELS  OR  NO  JEWELS. 


15 


husbands,  and  had  young  children  to  support,  could  be 
employed  until  they  could  find  more  remunerative 
business.  I  would  have  great  work-shops,  where  boys 
and  girls  could  learn  how  to  become  skilled  laborers, 
and,  if  I  were  our  great  national  government,  I  would 
build  this  kind  of  establishment  in  every  state  in  the 
Union,  jewels  or  no  jewels." 


Madame  Barren  sat  waiting,  resplendent  in  her  beauty  and  jewels,  flashing 
her  wit  at  Jean  Reining. 


CHAPTER  IL 

JEAN    REMING. 

Jean  Eeming  was  a  firmly-built,  compact  woman,  of 
medium  size,  with  very  large  hazel-brown  eyes.  Her 
queenly  pose  impressed  one  that  she  was  a  much  larger 
woman  than  she  really  was.  Her  strength  of  character 
diffused  itself  about  her  like  an  atmosphere — you  felt 
it  as  you  feel  the  brightness  of  a  June  day,  or  the 
breeze  of  an  ocean  sea-side.  If  she  stepped  into  a 
brilliant  social  company,  all  eyes  were  upon  her ;  if  in 
to  a  legislative  body  of  statesmen,  each  great  man 
armed  his  wit  with  a  keener  edge,  found  words  to 
convey  his  subtlest  meaning,  feeling  sure  that  the  deep, 
brown,  soulful  eyes  of  Jean  Reming  would  fathom  his 
profoundest  thought,  if  no  one  else  did. 

When  Jean  was  a  mere  maiden,  and  lived  on  the 
border  of  those  vast  forests  of  the  Pacific  Coast,  where 
rolled  the  mighty  Oregon,  and  heard  naught  save  its 
own  dashings,  the  Indian  was  touched  by  the  same 
feeling,  something  akin  to  awe,  and  on  two  or  three 
occaBions,  this  power  of  Jean's  had  prevented  an  out 
break  of  the  savages.  The  Indian,  with  heart  raging 
with  all  the  untrained  passions  of  hatred  and  revenge 
for  the  pale-faced  foe,  had  been  subdued  into  burying 
his  tomahawk,  and  wheeling  into  good  behavior,  sim 
ply  by  the  presence  of  this  young  girl  at  the  door  of 
his  wigwam.  The  untamed  soul  of  the  desperate  sav 
age  was  made  to  feel  that  it  was  better  to  look  for  a  day 
of  deliverance  by  appealing  to  the  better  part  of  hia 
foe  than  by  total  extermination  of  the  whites  who  were 
trespassing  on  his  landed  estates  which  he  held  by  in 
heritance  in  fee  simple. 

Jean  called  this  power  her  fate.      She  hated  to  be 


JEAN  REMING.  17 

observed,  and  since  her  earliest  recollection,  it  had 
been  her  misfortune  to  be.  It  made  her  retiring  and 
careful,  both  to  a  degree.  Her  movements,  if  studied, 
were  almost  classical  in  grace,  her  smile  was  only  a 
bright  ripple  that  scarcely  moved  a  muscle  of  her  fine 
oval  face,  and  quickly  faded  into  a  Madonna-like  sad 
ness. 

Jean  Reming,  when  a  child  was  an  only  daughter  of 
Benjamin  Ames,  a  clergyman  who  had  five  sons.  It 
may  seem  strange  that  Jean  should  come  nearer  taking 
the  place  of  her  father,  when  he  died  while  the  children 
were  all  small,  than  any  of  the  sons. 

The  older  sons,  as  it  often  happens,  had  to  rustle  for 
themselves;  so  it  came  about  that  Jean  should  be  the 
prop  of  her  mother  whose  constant  companion  she  was. 
Alfred,  the  youngest,  was  an  infant  only  one  year  old, 
"Will  seven  and  Jean  nine ;  the  other  two  boys,  Ben 
and  Tom,  twelve  and  fourteen.  The  eldest  son  had 
been  left  at  school  in  New  England.  The  Ameses  had 
immigrated  to  this  country  only  the  year  before. 

Mrs.  Ames  was  a  New  England  wife  and  mother;  left 
on  the  broad  prairie  of  an  Illinois  rented  farm,  when 
her  husband,  dying,  left  her  with  a  narrow  income 
strangely  inadequate  to  the  almost  unlimited  necessities 
of  a  vigorously  growing  family.  The  mother  was  a 
well-bred  lady.  Her  thorough  education  stood  her 
well  in  the  stirring  time  of  her  great  need.  She  was 
wholly  untrained  to  do  business,  however.  Jean  Ames, 
being  the  idol  of  the  house,  her  mother  was  afraid  her 
daughter  would  grow  up  boyish,,  because  she  was  the 
only  girl  among  so  many  boys.  But  if  there  had  been 
five  daughters  instead  of  one,  Jean's  nature  would 
have  asserted  itself  just  the  same.  Mr.  Ames  was  a 
man  of  education,  and  knowing  that  he  would  be  away 
from  home  preaching,  always  kept  everything  in  order 
about  the  place.  So  Mrs.  Ames  decided  to  remain  on 
the  farm  with  her  little  ones  until  the  following  spring, 
as  the  wood  was  all  piled  up  under  the  shed' for  the 


18  T1IK     MUKOINU    OL«'   '-I'). 

long  winter's  use — walnut.  and  hickory  logs,  llio  bent 
wo.nl  that  was  over  ]>ut  into  a  big,  old-fashioned,  open- 
faced  fireplace  in  tlio  woi'ld  to  Mi  row  out  a  bright  blaze, 
drying  tho  snow  from  Mm  boy's  ibot  or  making  you 
ashamed  to  lota  tear  glisten  on  your  face  even  for  so 
great  a  loss  as  a  biisbaud  and  father — Hither  of  such  a 
promising  (lock  as  tlio  litMo  Ameses  wore.  And  then 
the  Iced  was  all  stowed  away  in  Mio  big  barn  lor  tlio 
horses,  c  >ws,  sheep  and  voting  ea.lUe;  corn  lor  the, 
cackling  hens,  waddling  ducks  and  clamoring  geese. 
Tlio  hogs  wore  belli';-  fattened,  (ivory t hing  in  readiness 
for  the  king  of  winter's  Hiiro  coining  when  alas!  the 
king  of  terror  had  swept  away  the  falher  so  suddenly, 
giving  only  four  days'  warning.  The  neighbors  had  all 
decided  that  it  was  a  very  foolish  tiling  for  Mrs.  Ames 
to  try  to  stay  on  the  farm  all  winter — lhat  she  OUght  to 
Bell  OUt  everything  she  could  and  jjfivo  away  the  i-ost 
a,nd  o-o  bac-k  to  her  family  ill  tho  Kast.  A  Mr.  Toot, 
living  near,  came  in  to  say  that  as  she  was  lolt  in  so 
helpless  a  condition  with  her  litMo  ones,  he  would  tako 
homo  her  fattest  hoi;-  in  the  pen,  kill  it  and  brini; 
her  buck  all  tho  hoi;-;  he  keeping  tho  head,  I'eot  and 
ollal  for  his  trouble.  M  i-s.  Ames  smiled  at  the  odd  prop 
osition,  saying  :  u  I  i'ear  that  will  be  poor  pay  lor  your 
trouble,  Mr.  Toot." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Ames,  I  shall  not  mind  doin^  you  a  kind 
ness;  the  bible  tolls  us  to  be  good  to  the  widow  and 
fatherless." 

Mrs.  Amos  wiped  away  a  tear  she  could  not  repress 
at  hearing  her  lilt  lo  ones  spoken  of  in  this  helpless  way; 
she  could  scarcely  realize  the  fact  yet,  as  her  husband 
was  often  away  from  homo,  and  to  her  it  seemed  ho 
must  come  back.  lu  a,  moment  she  recovered  and 
said 

"If  you  will  prepare  the  pig  for  meat,  Mr.  Teot,  I 
shall  be  very  glad.  Mr.  Rogers  was  going  to  send  his 
hired  man  over  (Saturday  to  kill  and  areas  the  pig,  but 
your  kind  oiler  will  aave  us  from  an  obligation  to  Mr. 


JKAJT  REMING.  19 

Mr.    rJV:t  ;,  '':g  next  morning.     If 

anyone  could  have  loo.  ';ircamv-:  ,rcine 

/it  laug:  would  have  to  be  interested  in  the 

Q  of  the  family,  as  Jean  was.     Mrs.  /, 
looked  at  the  remnants  of  the  curtailed  p:  _; 

10  was  looking  as  though  he  thought  for 
the  first  time  that  possibly  he  had  taken  the  lion's  share 
from  the  widow  and  orph  ;  as  thou.. 

nay  that  the  pig  had  shrur. 

ing  before  when  he  took  it  aw  ather 

apologetically:  "  You  know,  Mrs.  Ames,  the  pig  did  uot 
weigh  BO  much  as  we  thought  it  would  when  it  was  in 
the  pen."  Our  meanest  acts  never  look  quite  so  bad  to 
us  as  when  some  one  else  is  looking  at  them  with  u-i. 
The  children  had  gathered  about  the  table,  laughing 
— who  could  help  it  ' 

"  Well,  Ida,  I  think  the  pig's  head  is  cut  off  just 

tie  shoulder,  and  the  tail  up  to  the  shoulder." 

lira.  Ames  was  looking  seriously  at  the  pig  and  Mr. 

alternately.     Jean  was  not  ten  years  old,  but 
knew  her  mother  would  ray  nothing  to  the  man  who  had 
~o  imposed  upon  them,  and  indeed  what  good  would 
words  do.     Little  Jean  was  not  so  wise  a  ;  if  her 

mother,  however,  so  she  stepped  in  front  of  Mr.  Teet, 
saying,  with  a  directness  that  made  him  quai  i 

i't  you  take  all  the  pig?"  g  would 

have  weighed  one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  when  Mr. 
Teet  took  it  away  in  his  wagon,  and  he  brought  it  back 
weighing  fifty  pounds,  in  a  small  bag  which  he  carried 
with  ease  on  his  shoulder. 

j,  a  boy  of  fourteen,  wit?  own  curls  pi> 

back  from  a  massive  brow,  with  cheeks  round  and  re«i 
apple,  e:  1  with  an  impatient  air,  "  Mother, 

I  think  it  is  degrading  to  let  a  person  swindle  you  that 

Veil,  nay  child,  very  true,  but  what  can  you  d 

"Nothing;.  rier,  but  our  humiliation, 

and  look  out  for  the  next  benevolently  incliL 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE    BOYS*     GAME    CLUB. 

Ben  Ames  was  both  an  active  and  scholarly  little  fel 
low.  He  read  history,  to  the  great  satisfaction  of  his 
mother  and  the  children,  on  dark,  rainy  nights.  But 
when  the  beautiful  snow,  together  with  the  clear,  cold 
moon,  made  the  hunting  grounds  almost  as  light  as 
day,  Ben,  with  the  boys  of  the  game  club,  went  out 
hunting  coon  and  rabbit,  and  the  talk  of  these  boys  of 
bringing  down  bears,  deer  and  wild  turkey  was  much 
more  plentiful  than  the  game  itself,  although  the  boys 
really  did  bring  in  game  now  and  again,  to  the  great 
surprise  of  themselves  and  the  old  folks  at  home.  In 
those  days  the  prairies  of  the  West  abounded  with  deer 
and  wild  turkey. 

It  turned  out  that  the  fun-loving  old  nigger  Johnson 
captured  the  coons  for  the  boys,  and  the  club  bought 
the  turkeys  of  some  more  fortunate  hunter  and  dis 
tributed  the  sports  and  the  honors  as  they  could,  with 
out  being  found  out. 

As  winter  was  well  advanced,  one  morning  there 
was  great  excitement  over  a  delicious,  fat  wild  turkey 
hanging  high  in  the  wood-shed  at  the  Ames's.  When 
Jean  asked  Ben  who  shot  the  turkey,  "He  or  Joe 
Rogers?"  Ben  said,  u  Neither  of  us,  and  you  needn't 
ask,  Miss,  for  we  boys  have  a  rule  in  the  club  that 
we  shall  not  tell  who  shoots  the  game,  for  some  of  the 
boys  who  never  shoot  anything — but  their  guns  oft' — 
don't  like  it,  that's  a  fact,"  with  a  little  strut  across 
the  floor,  adding:  "  Girls  could  not  make  a  rule  like 
that,  because  they  would  tell,  every  time;  girls  can 
not  keep  a  secret/' 


THE   BOYS'   GAME   CLUB.  21 

"  No,"  blurted  out  Jeau;  "  girls  don't  have  secrets  to 
keep,  is  the  reason.'' 

"  Children!  children! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Ames,  who 
had  heard  more  of  this  dialogue  than  either  of  the 
children  supposed,  "  you  ought  to  be  quite  happy  over 
the  turkey  without  caring  who  killed  it.  But  I  sup 
pose  your  sister  wishes  you  to. carry  off  the  honors  of 
the  club  as  you  do  those  of  the  spelling-school,"  added 
she,  soothingly,  to  Ben. 

"No,"  cried  Jean,  "  I  don't  want  him  to  get  any 
honors  at  all,  if  he  struts  so,  and  says  such  spiteful 
things  about  girls,  that  are  not  true,  either." 

"My  dear  child,"  replied  Mrs.  Ames,  'you  got  the 
best  of  your  brother  when  you  said  girls  had  no  secrets 
to  keep,  and  I  should  think  that  ought  to  satisfy  yon." 

"And  I  should  think  so  too,"  said  Ben,  "  but  girls 
never  know  when  they  do  score  a  point,  just  because 
we  boys  don't  flinch  when  we're  hit." 

Mrs.  Ames  suspected  there  was  something  troubling 
Ben's  conscience  a  little,  so  she  said,  "You  may  bring 
home  some  of  the  boys  from  school  to-night,  Ben,  and 
we'll  eat  the  turkey  and  have  some  fun  indoors  and 
not  go  hunting  to-night." 

Ben  was  pulling  on  two  long  mittens  and  came  back 
to  his  mother  where  she  still  sat  at  the  breakfast  table, 
giving  her  a  rousing  hug,  and  a  kiss  that  sounded  like 
a  pop-gun,  saying:  "  I  will  bring  Will  Niles,  for  he  is 
the  best  boy  in  school.  How  many  boys  can  I  bring, 
mother — six?" 

"No,"  cried  Jean,  "only  three!" 

That  morning  Mrs.  Ames  sat  thinking.  "While  she 
washed  and  dressed  the  smaller  children,  curled  little 
Alfred's  soft  brown  hair  over  her  fingers — her  sweet 
child  treasure — the  tears  would  come,  but  she  wiped 
them  quickly  away  with  the  corner  of  little  Alfred's 
apron  and  kissed  his  curia.  She  was  so  unused 
to  crying.  The  tears  that  had  come  to  her  eyes 
were  tears  of  sympathy;  she  had  so  often  told 
women  with  like  affliction  of  the  dear  Father's  love, 


22  ME    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

that  she  tried  to  think  the  same  for  herself  now,  but 
found  it  a  little  harder  to  see  the  silver  lining  behind 
this  cloud  that  had  bereft  her  of  her  husband. 

Mrs.  Ames  knew  no  more  of  the  little  deceptions 
and  harmless  tricks  of  the  great  social  circles  than  she 
did  of  the  chicanery  and  fraud  practiced  in  the  busi 
ness  world. 

She  read  in  her  Bible  that  there  was  good  and 
evil,  but  so  far  the  evil  had  been  far  from  her. 
The  telegraph  and  daily  newspaper  did  not  herald  the 
sins  of  the  whole  earth  as  they  do  to  you  and  me, 
dear  reader.  For  herself,  she  had  only  dwelt  on  the 
goodness  of  God  and  his  infinite  mercies.  Her  whole 
life  had  been  a  hymn  of  praise,  her  thoughts  of  purity 
and  heaven. 

There  are  tricks  that  damage  the  character  more 
than  a  lie — an  outspoken,  frank,  sturdy,  stand-up-and- 
face-it  lie.  This  thought,  not  clearly  defined,  but 
there  just  the  same,  had  saddened  and  set  Mrs.  Ames 
to  thinking,  and  this  thought  saddens  and  sets  the 
whole  world  of  mothers  to  thinking,  without  very 
much  available  good  coming  from  it  either. 

Think  what  it  would  be  if  we  were  all  honest  and 
acted  the  clean  truth.  There  never  would  be  another 
house  of  correction  built  to  put  little  children  in; 
never  another  prison  where,  as  Byron  says,  "  man  first 
penned  his  brother  man."  Our  great  national  institu 
tions — the  dark  blot  on  our  civilization — known  as  our 
penitentiaries,  costing  our  state  governments  millions 
and  millions  annually  to  conduct  them,  would  all  be 
turned  into  great  thriving  work-shops,  where  honest 
labor  would  ennoble  the  toilers,  and  not  taint  them 
with  a  stigma  that  is  bitter  and  more  galling  to  the 
higher  nature  of  man  than  the  iron  manacles  of  these 
institutions  that  lacerate  his  flesh. 

All  the  great  cities  of  the  world  could  do  without 
their  army  of  policemen.  Look  at  the  immense  ex 
pense  of  the  one  item  of  bars  and  bolts  and  locks  and 
keys  all  over  the  world,  to  say  nothing  of  the  great 


THE   BOYS'   GAME   CLUB.  23 

iron  safes,  and  the  eternal  watch  and  ward  that  every 
body  has  to  keep  over  the  merest  trifle  of  any  value. 
Think  of  the  millions  that  are  destroyed  every  year 
by  the  incendiary's  midnight  torch.  Think  of  the 
time  spent  in  shopping;  if  you  buy  a  spool  of  thread 
to  sew  a  button  on  Johnny's  breeches,  you  are  obliged 
to  sit  on  a  stool  ten  minutes,  and  wait  for  the  spool  to 
go  meandering  around  somewhere  and  come  back 
again,  all  because  an  honest  clerk  cannot  be  found,  or, 
at  least,  not  a  whole  store  full  of  honest  clerks. 

Think  of  the  mighty  engine  of  the  giant  law,  thun 
dering  out  its  vengeance  In  eternal  jaw.  Besides  all 
the  lawyer's  wrangle — consider  the  time  spent  sitting, 
waiting — waiting — waiting  for  the  law's  delay;  all  the 
honest  people  as  well  as  the  rascals  mixed  up  in  the 
interminable  wrangle,  until  you  can't  tell  one  from  the 
other.  It  is  time  for  somebody  to  call  a  halt,  and  say, 
"  Let  us  be  honest." 

We  are  proud  to  say  that  we  are  a  nation  of  thieves 
and  liars,  and  every  act  of  our  lives  and  all  our  busi 
ness  transactions  are  conducted  on  this  basis.  Now, 
why  is  this? 

It  is  the  first  few  drops  of  water  that  weaken  the 
dam,  and  unchecked  go  on  and  cause  a  flood.  It  is  the 
first  little  defect  in  our  character  that  makes  us  at  last 
the  great  defaulter.  It  was  just  this  almost  untarnish- 
able  touch  of  deceit  that  rasped  Ben  on  to  irritability 
at  the  mere  mention  of  who  shot  ..the  turkey.  Mrs. 
Ames  felt  sure  that  Ben  was  not  quite  satisfied  with 
himself,  and  felt  savage  with  anyone  who  was  going  to 
make  the  discovery  of  a  flaw  in  his  conduct,  and  she, 
of  all  persons,  was  not  going  to  see  his  fault,  but  if  Ben 
brought  the  boys  home  to  dinner,  she  was  sure  that 
they  themselves  would  disclose  it,  notwithstanding  the 
boasted  superiority  of  masculine  secretiveness. 

Mrs.  Ames  prepared  that  dinner  with  as  much  care 
and  ceremony  as  if  the  company  were  all  to  be  church 
deacons  and  archbishops.  It  had  been  one  of  her 
chief  delights  to  entertain,  so  it  was  no  great  trouble  to 


24  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

receive  such  a  bright  troop  of  young  gentlemen.  She 
had  the  knack  of  dispensing  "  those  simple  pleasures 
that  always  please  "  with  so  much  matronly  grace  that 
no  prince  was  ever  prouder  of  his  mother  than  Ben. 
Mrs.  Ames  thought  there  never  was  such  a  splendid 
company  of  boys,  so  full  of  manly  dignity,  so  finely 
balancing  the  fun,  that,  in  spite  of  their  efforts  to 
control,  would  every  now  and  again,  burst  out  into 
uproarious  laughter;  in  fact,  they  were  very  unlike 
the  boys  in  the  poem — instead  of  the  forty  boys  behav 
ing  like  one,  each  boy  behaved  like  forty. 

Mrs.  Ames  sat  carving  the  turkey,  putting  a  generous 
slice  of  roast  pork  on  every  boy's  plate.  That  dress 
ing  and  those  mashed  potatoes  seasoned  with  cream 
and  butter,  that  delicious  dish  of  apple-sauce  that  went 
to  every  boy's  plate  to  be  eaten  with  the  roast  pork! 
Then  came  the  pumpkin  pie,  the  walnuts  and  hickory 
nuts  and  big  red  apples;  the  stories  about  how  Jean 
climbed  the  trees  and  helped  shake  those  hickory  nuts 
off,  and  was  no  more  afraid  than  a  boy.  And  then 
more  fun,  until  you  would  think  that  such  a  laugh  after 
such  a  dinner  would  be  dangerous.  But  the  funniest 
fun  of  all  the  fun  popped  out  of  Dick  Martin's  mouth, 
in  a  voice  loud  enough  to  be  heard  above  all  the  other 
boys,  after  the  last  delicious  mouthful  of  that  splendid 
bird  had  been  swallowed  by  that  young  gentleman. 

"Mike  Finnegan  was  a  good  fellow  to  shoot  this 
turkey  when  it  was  eating  old  Pattou's  corn,  and  then 
give  it  to  us  boys  for  our  game  club.  Hey,  boys,  I 
propose  a  toast  and  three  cheers.  '  May  his  good  aim 
always  bring  down  as  good  game,  and  his  generous 
soul  meet  with  equal  generosity  from  all  mankind!' ' 
The  boys  were  on  their  feet  in  a  moment,  giving  hea  ty 
cheers  to  that  toast.  Jean  glanced  at  her  mother  who 
sat  smiling  triumphantly  at  the  boys'  method  of  keep 
ing  secrets,  and  glad  in  her  heart  that  the  little  decep 
tion  that  tempted  them  was  no  greater.  She  thought, 
as  the  last  good-night  had  been  said,  that  a  grander 
deed  could  not  well  be  done  than  to  help  steer  such 


THE  BOYS'  GAME  CLUB.          25 

boys  into  the  clear  paths  of  rectitude  that  would  lead 
to  lives  of  honor.  So  she  asked  Ben  the  next  morning 
if  it  would  not  be  a  good  idea  to  propose  a  new  rule  at 
the  next  game-club  meeting  that  would  not  prove  such 
a  strain  on  the  boys'  secretiveness.  Ben,  with  another 
hearty  kiss,  promised  her  that  he  would  at  their  very 
next  meeting,  saying: 

"  And  if  I  just  mention  that  you  suggested  it,  mother, 
it  will  be  carried  without  a  dissenting  voice." 

Ben  had  no  opportunity  of  remedying  his  game-club 
law,  however,  for  before  they  met  again  he  had  an 
offer  from  the  village  editor  to  come  into  his  office  and 
learn  to  set  type. 

Ben  and  Mrs.  Ames  went  to  town  soon  after,  talked 
over  the  affair  with  the  editor  and  his  wife,  for  Ben 
was  to  live  with  the  family  until  he  was  twenty-one 
years  of  age,  then  to  go  into  partnership  with  the  firm, 
as  one  of  the  editors.  The  saddest  time  in  a  mother's 
life  came  to  Mrs.  Ames  early — the  time  when  the  boya 
leave  home  to  make  their  own  way  in  the  world. 

Thomas,  who  was  two  years  younger  than  Ben  and 
not  nearly  BO  strong,  took  largely  to  books,  with  very 
little  disposition  for  gunning. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE     PROPOSAL. 

The  minister  that  took  charge  of  the  church  after 
the  death  of  Mr.  Ames,  proposed  to  take  Thomas,  send 
him  to  school,  and  if  he  should  continue  in  his  studious 
habits,  when  he  became  older  he  would  train  him  for 
the  ministry.  So,  after  many  tears  and  prayers  for  the 
dear  Father's  guidance,  Mrs.  Ames  gave  up  her  boys. 

These  boys,  with  their  early  training,  were  a  source 
of  income  to  these  men,  and  of  course  the  widow  would 
be  relieved  of  all  such  burdens.  If  she  had  been  brave, 
and  kept  those  splendid  boys,  and  stayed  on  the  farm 
that  had  been  leased  her  for  a  number  of  years,  how 
much  better  for  them  and  for  her! 

The  dear  snuggery,  where  lingered  all  the  sweet 
memories  of  the  last  days  with  husband  and  father, 
had  to  be  broken  up.  Mrs.  Ames  took  a  small  cottage, 
and  she,  Jean,  Will,  and  Alfred  were  soon  settled  in 
the  same  little  town  with  the  boys.  One  night,  after 
they  were  all  snugly  fixed  in  their  new  home,  Jean 
arid  her  mother  sat  sewing  by  the  fireside,  Jean  thread 
ing  all  the  needles.  She  put  the  last  one  down  in  a 
long  row  on  the  cushion,  and  said,  in  a  plaintive  voice: 

"  0,  mother,  why  did  you  not  arrange  to  have  the 
boys  sleep  at  home?  It  would  be  like  old  times  to 
have  them  come  home  at  night ;  it's  so  lonesome  this 


way." 


Then  Jean  was  so  sorry  she  had  said  it,  for  her 
mother  gave  a  great  sob  for  an  answer.  Jean  was  be 
side  her  mother  in  a  moment,  with  her  arms  about  her 
neck. 

"  Mother,  mother,  do  not  cry  so.    I  am  here;  I  will 


THE  PROPOSAL.  27 

stay  with  you  always.  Everybody's  boys  have  to  go 
out  and  work,  don't  they,  mother  ?  It  is  not  so  bad,  as 
they  are  so  near,  and  we  see  them  every  few  days. 
They  will  soon  be  men,  and  have  homes  of  their  own; 
then  we  will  all  live  together  again." 

"  O,  you  poor  child,"  sobbed  her  mother.  "  How 
little  you  know  of  the  ways  of  the  world."  Bat  she 
stopped  crying,  bathed  her  face  in  cold  water,  glanced 
into  the  glass,  and  wondered  if  one  with  such  a  heart 
ache  could  look  only  eighteen,  as  Mr.  Sneekinswine 
had  said  she  did  that  day  when  she  was  in  the  tailor 
shop  of  Messrs.  Sneekinswine  &  Brassfielder,  getting 
her  week's  work  of  sewing.  Mrs.  Ames  was  mistress 
of  her  needle.  Emerson  has  said  there  is  a  compensa 
tion  for  everything — was  it  so  now  ?  The  fine  stitch 
ing  and  embroidery  she  had  done  for  the  infant  throng 
that  had  come  right  along  without  any  interruption 
year  after  year  all  her  married  life;  the  fine  cloth 
clothes  for  her  little  boys  which  she  had  often  con 
structed  out  of  their  father's  old  ones,  had  at  least  kept 
her  fingers  deft  at  the  work. 

Messrs.  Sneekinswine  &  Brassfielder  had  soon  found 
that  the  men's  suits  made  by  Mrs.  Ames  brought 
higher  prices  than  those  made  by  their  own  workmen. 
But  they  never  offered  Mrs.  Ames  any  of  the  profit 
brought  to  them  by  her  good  work.  They,  in  fact, 
kept  very  still  about  her  doing  good  work,  and  even 
had  been  mean  enough  at  one  time  to  find  some  fluw 
in  her  sewing.  The  only  way  she  suspected  that  she 
did  better  work  than  any  one  else  sewing  for  the  same 
house  was  that  they  insisted  upon  her  taking  home  the 
finest  cloth  suits  that  they  had  to  make. 

It  was  on  one  occasion,  when  Mr.  Sueekinswine  had 
asked  her  to  take  two  suits  of  fine  black  broadcloth 
and  have  them  returned  by  the  next  Saturday.  The 
suits  were  intended  for  a  bridegroom  and  his  best  man. 
Mrs.  Ames  had  said:  "  Give  me  the  light  tweed,  if  you 
please,  Mr.  Sneekinswine,  I  can  sew  on  that  at  night, 
and  it  will  not  be  so  trying  to  my  eyes." 


28  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

Mr.  Sneekinswine  had  said,  with  a  quizzical  smile: 
"  You  do  not  look  more  than  eighteen,  Mrs.  Ames." 

Mrs.  Ames  did  not  glance  at  him,  and  whatever 
meaning  he  might  have  had  was  utterly  lost  upon  her, 
as  she  firmly  replied :  "Send  the  light  tweed  and  the 
black  suit  to  my  house,  as  I  am  going  to  the  next 
store,"  and  she  walked  quickly  out. 

The  fact  had  got  abroad  that  Mrs.  Ames  did  fine 
work.  One  law  firm  and  two  or  three  doctors  had 
ordered  suits  made  by  her;  they  not  paying  her  quite 
as  much  as  they  would  pay  the  firm  of  Sneekinswine 
&  Brassfielder,  but  still,  more  than  that  firm  would 
allow  her  if  they  had  had  the  order  ;  and  knowing  this 
fact,  she  had  felt  a  strong  disposition  to  walk  out  of 
that  house  and  never  return,  but  not  being  quite  sure 
that  she  could  get  custom-work  enough  to  support  her 
children,  and  knowing  that  it  was  a  woman's  preroga 
tive  to  avoid  any  little  pleasantry  that  might  or  might 
not  be  intended  as  an  insult,  she  determined  to  keep 
quiet  and  try  all  the  harder  to  get  custom-work,  and  so 
be  independent  of  this  firm  as  soon  as  possible. 

When  Mrs.  Ames  arrived  home  an  hour  later,  she 
found  the  black  and  tweed  suits  awaiting  her.  Laying 
off  her  bonnet  and  tying  a  long  white  apron  over  her 
neatly  fitting  black  cashmere  dress,  she  untied  the 
work  and  assorted  it  in  piles  on  a  long,  clean,  white 
pine  table;  the  pants  by  themselves,  the  vests  by  them 
selves,  and  each  coat  in  a  pile  by  itself.  She  took  a 
sleeve  of  the  black  cloth  coat  and  commenced  sewing 
as  if  the  long  unbroken  seam  would  give  her  more  time 
for  quiet  thinking.  Stitch,  stitch,  stitching;  for  you 
must  not  forget  that  the  sewing  machine  was  not 
invented,  and  at  that  period  a  woman  could  sit  grace 
fully,  stitch  quietly  and  think  profoundly;  if  she  had  a 
mind  to. 

And  this  is  what  she  thought:  If  I  do  not  take  my 
eyes  off  this  sewing  for  two  days  and  a  half,  and  give 
myself  only  ten  minutes  for  each  meal,  I  can  get  the 
black  coat  done  in  that  time;  the  black  pants  and 


THE  PROPOSAL.  29 

vest  will  take  two  days  more;  then  I  have  a  day  and  a 
half  of  daylight  to  finish  the  tweed  suit,  and  make  the 
button  holes.  Almost  the  entire  suit  will  have  to  be 
made  evenings,  and  I  shall  be  compelled  to  sit  up  'till 
twelve  o'clock  every  night,  and  then  the  pay  is  a  mis 
erable  pittance. 

Just  at  this  point  of  her  soliloquy  there  was  a  rap  at 
the  door,  and  the  face  of  the  family  physician,  dear 
old  Doctor  Knight,  beamed  upon  her  like  the  dawn  of 
a  new  day.  He  sat  down  and  told  her  of  the  probable 
health  and  probable  death  of  his  numerous  patients, 
adding  in  a  cheery  voice,  "  but,  Mrs.  Ames,  I  have  a 
much  more  thrilling  theme  to  talk  to  you  about,"  but 
with  his  eyes  cast  down,  "you  look  so  cosy  and  com 
fortable  here  I  hardly  dare  to  tell  you,  and  you  have 
plenty  of  work  to  do,  too,  I  see,"  glancing  at  the  piles 
of  work  laid  out  on  the  long  table. 

Mrs.  Ames  answered:  "  Yes,  too  much  work,  but 
not  enough  pay." 

"  Well,  that  gives  me  heart  again,  and  I'll  pluck  up 
courage  and  tell  you,  he  continued.  You  know  my 
friend,  Murdstone,  who  lost  his  wife  about  a  year  or 
ten  months  ago.  He  is  a  member  of  our  church.  You 
perhaps  remember  seeing  his  wife;  a  very  quiet,  odd 
little  woman,  quite  pale;  she  dressed  the  children  so 
like  little  old  men  and  women  when  she  brought  them 
to  church;  didn't  know  how  to  sew  any  more  than  a 
mud  turtle.  She  was  a  Virginia  lady,  always  accus 
tomed  to  slaves.  Well,  Murdstone  married  her  when 
she  was  quite  young,  and  brought  her  out  to  this  new 
country  about  ten  years  ago.  She  brought  an  old  col 
ored  servant  with  her  who  did  what  work  waa  done. 
Mrs.  Murdstone  never  liked  the  people  here.  I  guess 
she  never  spoke  ten  words  in  all  those  ten  years  to  any 
one  except  the  servant  and  nurse  that  came  when  her 
children  were  born.  I  have  attended  her  with  all  her 
children,  and  at  her  last  confinement  she  died  and  left 
a  little  girl  not  an  hour  old.  A  sad  case.  Murdstone 
took  it  very  hard,  poor  fellow.  He  is  left  with  those 


30  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

five  little  children.  He  has  a  snug  little  home  out  there 
six  miles  in  the  country,  but  everything  is  going  to 
rack  and  ruin,  he  tells  me.  Murdstone  is  not  a  bad 
looking  man  when  you  cooae  to  that.  You  know  he  is 
a  big  tall  fellow,  though  he  is  not  a  rich  man  and  never 
will  be — not  speculative  at  all,  and  so  most  likely  will 
never  be  a  poor  man.  Pie  is  one  of  those  plodding, 
steady-going  kind  of  mea,  with  iiot  a  particle  of  ro 
mance  about  him. 

The  quick  sympathy  of  Mrs.  Ames  had  been  follow 
ing  his  recital.  She  had  often  listened  to  the  stories  of 
the  doctor's  patients,  and  no  more  thought  that  the 
doctor  was  getting  around  to  a  proposal  of  marriage 
between  Mr.  Murdstone  and  herself,  than  she  thought 
of  taking  a  trip  to  the  North  Pole.  The  doctor  could 
see  this  and  it  made  it  all  the  more  difficult  for  him  to 
get  at  the  pith  of  his  story. 

"  As  I  was  saying,  he  is  a  plain,  blunt  man,  Mrs 
Ames;  no  more  like  your  husband  was,  than  a  gray 
dull  morning  is  like  the  noon-day  sun,  but  then  you 
have  brightness  and  sunshine  enough  in  your  nature 
for  two  families.7' 

Mrs.  Ames  raised  her  great  brown  eyes  full  upon 
him,  and  said :  "  What  do  you  mean,  Doctor  Knight  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  those  four  little,  motherless  girls  need 
just  such  a  mother  as  you  are,  and  that  Mr.  Murdstone 
is  coming  into  town  with  a  load  of  grain  to  mill  next 
week,  and  he  requested  me  to  call  upon  you  and  ask 
you  if  he  might  call  and  see  you  while  his  grist  is  be 
ing  ground.'5 

Mrs.  Ames  laughed  heartily,  saying: 

"  That  is  romantic,  I  am  sure,  for  a  man  to  call 
upon  a  lady  and  ask  her  to  be  his  wife  while  the  fam 
ily  flour  is  being  ground  for  the  year.  I  suppose  he 
will  propose?"  she  added  in  her  bright  sparkling 
voice. 

"  Well,  yes,"  replied  the  doctor,  "  I  think  he  will, 
and  you  may  as  well  think  it  all  over  and  be  prepared 
with  your  answer." 


THE  PROPOSAL.  31 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  it  is  next  week  he  is  coming,  for 
I  could  not  give  him  ten  minutes  of  this  week  for  this 
sewing." 

"  I  see;  you  are  stitching  away  with  lightning  speed." 

"  Yes,  these  are  busy  times.  Mr.  Murdstone  will 
not  make  a  long  call,  will  he  ?  How  long  will  it  take 
his  grist  to  grind,  doctor  ? 

"  The  question  is  not  so  much  about  the  length  of 
the  call  as  the  answer  you  give  him,  my  dear,'5  a  little 
seriously.  "If  you  were  my  own  sister  I  could  not  be 
more  regretful  of  an  unhappy  marriage  for  you,  espec 
ially  since  I  have  been  the  one  to  recommend  it." 

"Indeed,"  replied  Mrs.  Ames,  "this  does  look 
serious." 

The  doctor  rose  to  go,  saying,  "  Tell  me,  my  dear, 
I  am  to  see  patients  to-morrow  near  Mr.  Murdstone's, 
and  if  you  don't  object  to  his  calling,  I  will  say  so  for 
you." 

"  It  is  a  very  delicate  matter  to  make  answer  to,  but 
I  will  not  refuse  to  see  him,  however,  if  he  calls." 

And  the  doctor's  carriage  was  soon  heard  rolling 
away,  and  Mrs.  Ames'  stitching  went  on  as  steadily  as 
though  the  doctor  had  not  called. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE    UNWELCOME   VISITOR. 

Bather  thoughts  were  turned  in  an  entirely  differ 
ent  channel.  Her  heart  was  especially  tender  towards 
the  infant  brood  of  little  girls.  How  she  felt  for  her 
own  darlings  out  in  the  cold  world  among  strangers, 
who  cared  only  for  the  amount  of  work  they  could 
drive  them  through,  subject  to  harsh  criticism,  untem- 
pered  by  parental  love.  If  Mrs.  Ames  had  not  been  at 
work  herself,  the  meanness  of  sordid  selfishness  would 
not  have  come  home  so  keenly  to  her  as  it  did.  The 
very  idea  of  these  children,  that  would  have  appalled 
another  woman,  was  the  center  of  attraction  to  her.  If 
the  doctor  had  not  awakened  her  sympathy  for  the 
little  motherless  ones,  she  would  have  said  positively 
and  unconditionally,  "No;  he  cannot  call,  even  while 
his  grist  is  being  ground."  Now,  she  thought,  he 
can  be  a  father  to  my  little  boys  and  I  can  be  a  mother 
to  the  girls.  There  will  be  a  big  family;  ten  children! 
How  much  wisdom  will  be  required  to  train,  direct  and 
rear  ten  children;  his  baby  only  one  year  old,  her's  but 
three.  What  a  nursery!  how  she  would  try  to  be  a 
real  mother  to  the  whole  infant  band,  if  it  should  be 
God's  will  to  place  her  in  that  responsible  position. 
No  matter  what  Mr.  Murdstone's  proposal  might  be 
when  he  came  to  mill,  she  would  listen  to  no  proposal 
that  did  not  insure  her  having  all  her  children  with  her 
again.  There  must  surely  be  plenty  of  work  on  the 
farm,  and  the  boys  would  be  far  removed  from  the  evil 
influences  of  a  small  town,  where  there  were  always 
more  or  less  bad  elements. 

She  knew  the  work  for  such  a  large  family  would  be 


THE  UNWELCOME  VISITOR.  33 

something  enormous,  but  the  love  and  gratitude  of  so 
many  little  hearts  would  be  something  great  also.  The 
wail  of  poor,  old  King  Lear,  of,  "how  sharper  than  a 
serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  thankless  child,"  did  not 
enter  into  her  plans  for  the  future  of  these  children." 

Mrs.  Ames's  brain  was  as  busy  as  her  fingers  that 
week.  She  made  plans  and  resolves  that  she,  for  her 
part,  carried  out  to  the  letter  through  a  long  and  event 
ful  life.  But  the  plans  she  made  for  others  woefully 
miscarried,  as  we  shall  see  as  we  pass  on  through  the 
coming  events  of  this  history. 

Mrs.  Ames  was  surprised  and  annoyed,  if  not 
alarmed,  at  a  call  from  Mr.  Sneekinswine  the  very  next 
day  after  Doctor  Knight's  visit.  That  gentleman 
seemed  so  utterly  unconscious  of  the  embarrassment  he 
was  occasioning,  so  supremely  obtuse  to  anybody's  dis 
comfort,  that  Mrs.  Ames  assumed  as  much  indifference 
to  his  presence  as  she  well  could,  and  stepping  to  the 
other  side  of  the  long  work-table,  stood  with  folded 
hands  awaiting  his  orders.  It  never  entered  her  mind 
that  she  could  attribute  his  call  to  any  other  object 
than  some  direction  about  the  work,  and  as  neither  of 
the  firm  had  ever  called  upon  her  before,  she  was  still 
puzzled,  and  when  he  hesitated  she  inquired :  "  Why 
am  I  honored  with  a  call  from  you,  Mr.  Sueekinswiue  ? 
Perhaps  some  directions  about  the  work." 

"  Well,  yez;  ve  vished  ferry  much  to  haf  it  done 
dees  veek." 

Mrs.  Ames  replied :  "  I  have  never  disappointed 
your  firm  in  sending  the  work  home  at  the  time  I  had 
promised  it." 

"Yez,  and  dare  ia  sumding  elze,  Meesis  Ames. 
Dos  little  shildren  will  all  shtarve,  as  already  not  much 
more  vork  goes  out  ov  our  house.  Mrs.  Smith,  with 
her  seex  shrnall  shildren,  gets  no  more  vork.  She  ees 
vurtuous,  but  her  shildren  vos  go  hungry.  Dot  don't 
feed  dem." 

With    unnecessary   excitement    Mr.    Sueekinswine 
3 


34  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

arose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to  the  table,  and  lean 
ing  towards  Mrs.  Ames,  took  up  the  black  broadcloth 
coat  and  stuck  his  clumsy  finger  through  a  button-hole 
that  gleamed  with  its  firm  silken  stitches. 

"You  vork  like  dot  ven  you  could  leev  zo  much 
bedder  und  no  vork  at  all." 

Mrs.  Ames,  whose  fine  eyes  had  been  intent  on  di 
vining  his  meaning,  said:  "I  can  do  very  well  without 
work  from  your  house  or  advice  from  you,  sir.  I  will 
finish  this  piece,  but  will  never  do  another  stitch  of 
work  for  your  firm,  and  you  can  go  immediately," 
pointing  to  the  door.  "God  will  care  for  me  and  mine, 
and  in  Him  will  I  trust.  Not  another  word,  but  go!" 
she  exclaimed  in  decisive  tones  as  she  saw  that  Mr. 
Sneekinswine  was  again  about  to  open  his  mouth. 

As  he  stood  with  his  hat  in  his  hand  there  was  some 
thing  in  his  manner  so  odious,  so  repulsive  and  inso 
lently  overbearing,  that  Jean,  who  was  too  young  to 
understand  the  import  of  his  broken  English,  was  so 
enraged,  and  knowing  that  it  must  mean  something 
terrible  or  her  mother  would  not  have  spoken  to  him 
thus,  stepped  at  once  to  the  door  and  opened  it  wide 
that  he  might  pass  out  as  quickly  as  possible. 

To  add  injury  to  insult,  the  great,  coarse,  vulgar- 
eyed  sensualist,  stepping  in  front  of  Jean,  said: 

"  Vot  a  buffictly  boochiful  girl  Mees  Ames  eze.  Of 
she  vos  mine  little  girl  I  vud  but  her  in  von  glass  caze 
only  to  be  looked  at;  she  should  not  vork  ;  "  and  with 
an  attempt  at  a  bow,  he  passed  out. 

Jean  was  not  long  in  giving  the  door  a  bang  behind 
him. 

u  Ho  one  will  ever  say  he  is  '  buffictly  beautiful,'  " 
Jean  sneered,  as  she  jerked  up  the  chair  whereon  the 
wretch  had  only  for  a  moment  sat. 

Mrs.  Ames,  divining  her  meaning,  cried: 

"  Why,  Jean,  the  man  did  not  sit  down  at  all." 

"  O,  yes,  he  did,  mother,"  and  she  carried  the  chair 
to  the  woodshed,  where  old  rubbish  and  odds  and  ends 
were  stored,  and  threw  it  on  to  the  heap  as  she  woul$ 


THE  UNWELCOME  VISITOR.  3D 

have  done  such  human  rubbish  as  Mr.  Sneekinswine. 
Mrs.  Ames  would  have  been  overwhelmed  at  this 
episode  had  it  occurred  the  week  before,  but  to-day  she 
scarcely  gave  the  creature  a  passingr  thought  of  con 
tempt,  so  supremely  occupied  was  she  with  what  Mr. 
Murdstone  would  be  like,  what  he  would  say  to  her, 
and  how  the  interview  would  likely  terminate.  But 
this  little  scene  had  much  to  do  in  riveting  her  resolves 
to  listen  favorably  to  Mr.  Murdstoue's  proposal. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE    MARRIAGE. 

One  night,  soon  after  this  little  event,  as  Jean  came 
home  from  school  with  her  books  on  her  arm,  her 
bonnet  half  falling  off',  her  hair  in  great,  loose,  tumbled 
curls  in  wild  confusion  over  her  neck  and  shoulders 
(she  had  romped  hard  as  well  as  studied  hard  that  day), 
she  saw,  as  she  neared  the  house,  a  gentleman  sitting 
just  inside  the  door,  so  tall  that  there  was  no  room  for 
her  to  pass,  so  she  went  around  to  the  back  entrance, 
piled  up  her  books,  brushed  her  hair  into  a  little  less 
confusion,  but  took  small  time;  for  since  the  unpleasant 
visit  of  the  man  the  week  before,  Jean  was  very 
suspicious.  When  she  entered,  she  saw  in  a  moment 
that  her  mother  was  looking  very  bright,  and  much 
happier  than  usual;  that  the  gentleman's  face,  too, 
was  lighted  up,  though  he  had  on  every-day  working- 
clothes,  coarse  boots,  and  flour  all  over  his  coat  and 
pants  in  spots  that  looked  like  "patches  of  snow  in  De 
cember,"  giving  him  a  very  rugged,  picturesque  look. 
He  had  a  modest,  retired,  something  of  a  gentlemanly 
air  about  him,  and  seemed  conversing  in  an  easy, 
friendly  manner  with  her  mother;  at  least  Jean  thought 
he  seemed  friendly. 

He  scarcely  looked  at  Jean  when  her  mother  said: 
"This  is  my  daughter,  Mr.  Murdstone,"  but  went  on 
talking  about  Jean's  father,  whom  he  had  often  heard 
preach,  and  greatly  admired,  and  soon  afterwards  took 
his  leave,  saying  he  would  call  the  following  Sunday. 

Jean  jumped  up  and  ran  to  her  mother  as  soon  as 
he  was  out  of  the  house,  crying,  "  Oh,  mamma,  what 
does  he  mean  by  coming  next  Sunday?  Nobody  wants 


THE  MARRIAGE.  g? 

to  see  him;  why  didn't  you  tell  him,  mother?  What 
is  his  business? '' 

Mrs.  Ames,  with  great  candor,  answered:  "Why, 
my  dear  child,  he  wants  to  marry  us,  and  take  us  all  out 
to  his  farm  in  the  country.'' 

"And  cover  us  all  over  with  flour?"  cried  Jean, 
"Marry  us!  he'Jl  not  marry  me,"  she  continued  with  a 
sneer,  and  sat  down  on  a  chair  against  the  wall  and 
burst  out  crying. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child,"  Jean's  mother  replied, 
soothingly,  "  Mr.  Murdstone  has  four  little  girls,  all 
smaller  than  you,  that  you  can  have  for  sisters/' 

"I  don't  like  Mr.  Murdstone,  and  I  can't  have  him 
for  my  father,"  sobbed  Jean. 

"  Why,  Jean,  I  am  astonished  at  you.  Mr.  Murd 
stone  may  fall  off  his  sacks  of  flour  as  he  goes  home 
to-night,  and  never  be  thought  of  again." 

"  Oh,  if  it  could  be  so,"  moaned  Jean.' 

Mrs.  Ames  did  not  like  to  hear  her  child  protest  so 
bitter! v  against  this  marriage.  She  was  not  supersti 
tious,  but  she  did  believe  the  sensitive  soul  stands  bare, 
sometimes,  quivering  against  the  cruelties  of  fate.  Was 
it  possible  that  this  step,  taken  only  for  her  children's 
good,  might  prove  their  greatest  evil?  For  a  moment 
her  eyes  took  on  that  far-away  look,  and  a  cold  shudder 
passed  over  her  frame.  In  spite  of  herself,  she  felt  the 
great  faith  that  she  had  in  Mr.  Murdstone  an  hour  be 
fore  was  shaken. 

Jean  remembered  the  bright  look  on  her  mother's 
face  when  she  first  came  home  from  school,  and  now 
saw  her  looking  sad.  She  was  ashamed,  ran  away  and 
washed  her  face,  brushed  her  hair,  and,  coming  back, 
said: 

"Forgive  your  naughty  child,  mamma;  but  I  did 
feel  so  bad  a  moment  ago,"  and  then  the  tears  gleamed 
in  her  eyes  again,  and  to  hide  them  she  ran  and 
brought  some  wood,  made  a  bright,  blazing  fire,  and 
tried  to  think  of  everything  for  the  evening  meal; 
hurried  hither  and  thither  to  do  this  and  that,  deter- 


38  THE    HEROINE    OF  '4& 

mined  to  put  the  hateful  reality  out  of  her  mind. 
Then  she  brushed  Alfred's  hair,  put  on  a  clean  apron, 
kissed  him,  and  said  he  was  the  sweetest  little  brother 
a  little  girl  ever  had,  and  Alfred  repeated  all  her  words 
over  again  in  his  childish  prattle. 

This  marriage  was  much  more  terrible  in  its  conse 
quences  in  wrecking  Jean's  happiness  than  that  of  her 
mother's,  as  we  shall  be  able  to  prove  as  we  proceed, 
and  right  here  let  the  metaphysician  tell  us  if  it  is 
possible  that  the  "angel  of  the  Lord  "  showed  this  to 
Jean  and  not  to  her  mother,  as  of  old  he  appeared  to 
Balaam's  ass  but  not  to  Balaam. 

Mr.  Murdstone,  as  he  wended  his  way  to  the  mill, 
pondered  on  what  he  should  do.  He  liked  the  fine 
face  of  the  young  widow.  She  looked  strong,  almost 
robust  when  compared  with  the  pale  face  of  the  little 
wife  he  had  so  recently  laid  under  the  sod,  which  was 
a  strong  point  in  the  widow's  favor.  No  man  who  has 
had  one  sickly  wife  wants  another,  no  matter  if  it  was 
his  own  cruelty  that  made  her  so;  and  summing  up 
expenses,  he  said  to  himself:  "The  young  girl  might 
want  to  stay  in  town  and  continue  at  school,  and  then 
there  would  be  but  the  two  youngest  boys.  A  few 
hard  whippings,  and  the  oldest  one  would  run  away, 
and  as  the  baby  looks  delicate  he  may  die.  In  that 
case,  I  should  have  the  widow  unencumbered.  Why, 
here  I  am  at  the  mill ! "  Mr.  Murdstone's  mind  and 
legs  had  been  making  rapid  strides  and  reached  their 
journey's  end  about  the  same  time. 

Mrs.  Ames  had  much  better  have  gone  on  with  her  sew 
ing,  and  done  by  Mr.  Sneekinswine  as  Ellen  Douglas 
did  by  James  Fitz- James,  who  "knew  every  wily 
train  a  lady's  fickle  heart  to  gain,  but  here  he  knew 
and  felt  them  vain."  If  she  could  have  understood 
Mr.  Murdstone's  meaning  as  she  did  Mr.  Sneekin- 
swine's,  she  would  have  sent  him  about  his  business 
quite  as  rapidly  as  she  did  that  gentleman. 

We  will  let  every  one  decide  for  himself  which  was 
the  greatest  rascal  of  the  two.  The  one  spoke  his 


THE  MARRIAGE.  39 

villainy  right  out,  and  she  could  defend  herself  and  her 
little  ones  from  it.  But  the  other  was  subtler  in  his 
meaning,  and  came  cloaked  about  in  the  garb  of  relig 
ion  and  morality.  Think  of  a  man  coolly  planning 
cruelty  to  the  children  of  his  beloved  pastor,  who  had 
gone  before  and  gained  the  eternal  heights  of  glory 
that  he  himself  was  clambering  for  every  day  and  hop 
ing  to  gain.  Just  imagine  a  man  planning  to  take  a 
mother  from  her  children,  leaving  them,  without  the 
slightest  consideration,  out  in  the  world,  deprived  of  a 
mother's  care,  her  love,  her  tenderness  all  diverted  from 
her  children  to  his;  not  that  he  wanted  his  children  to 
have  any  special,  tender  care,  but  that  he  thought  a 
bonded  slave  by  the  marriage  contract  would  be  cheaper 
than  hired  help.  He  would  just  as  coolly  turn  Mrs. 
Ames's  children  out  in  the  world,  and  deprive  them  of 
her  care,  as  he  would  fling  the  weeds  that  he  had  pulled 
out  of  his  corn-field,  over  the  fence  into  the  road,  and 
never  give  them  another  thought. 

Mr.  Murdstone,  according  to  promise,  appeared 
promptly  on  the  next  Sunday  afternoon.  Jean  was  at 
Sunday-school  with  her  brother  Will.  He  found  only 
little  Alfred  at  home  with  his  mother.  This  fact  of 
itself  was  sufficient  to  put  Mr.  Murdstone  in  great  good 
humor  with  himself,  and  the  thought  was  father  to  the 
wish  that  even  Alfred  might  soon  be  out  of  the  way. 
There  were  more  than  the  average  amount  of  subjects 
to  be  talked  over  before  the  preliminaries  of  a  mar 
riage  that  united  twelve  people  instead  of  two  could  be 
satisfactorily  adjusted  by  the  high  contracting  parties, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  little  objecting  parties.  Mrs. 
Ames  showed  by  her  constant,  motherly  solicitude  that 
she  took  his  children  right  into  her  heart,  and  would 
care  for  and  shield  them  from  every  harm  just  as  she 
did  her  own.  For  this  very  reason,  Mr.  Murdstone  found 
it  rather  difficult  to  propose  to  Mrs.  Ames  that  she 
leave  her  children  around  hither  and  yon,  among 
strangers,  and  the  gentleman  did  not  even  make  the 
proposition  that  he  had  thought  out  so  boldly,  of  leav- 


40  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

ing  Jean  at  school ;  and  when  Mrs.  Ames  frankly  told 
him  she  would  never  think  of  taking  this  step,  only  to 
gain  a  sober,  steady,  industrious  husband,  who  would 
be  a  good  father  to  her  children,  Mr.  Murdstone 
thought,  "I  cannot  adjust  these  matters  in  regard  to 
the  children  before  my  marriage."  But,  however  re 
ticent  he  was  before,  Mrs.  Ames  found  him  outspoken 
enough,  immediately  after  the  ceremony  had  been  pro 
nounced. 

Mrs.  Ames  often  thought  that  it  was  so  strange  that 
she  had  not  noticed,  before  her  marriage,  that  it  was 
an  alarming  peculiarity  that  Mr.  Murdstone  had  never 
showed  any  solicitude  about  her  being  good  to  his 
children,  but  it  was  she  who  had  to  ask  if  her  children 
would  be  equally  fed  and  clothed,  and  the  same  time 
allowed  them  for  their  education,  and  she  remembered 
uow,  with  pain,  that  he  had  hesitated  as  if  it  were  a 
new  idea  to  him,  as  indeed  it  was.  Mr.  Murdstone 
had  been  thinking  how  he  would  avoid  doing  all  this, 
and  not  at  all  how  well  he  would  act  the  part  of  a 
father  towards  these  children.  He  could  no  more  be  a 
kind  father  to  his  own  children  than  a  hitching-post  could 
be  the  graceful  bough  of  a  weeping-willow  tree.  He 
was  so  cold,  so  sordidly  mean  and  selfishly  cruel,  that 
he  would  not  permit  himself  to  be  comfortable,  much 
less  allow  children  to  be  comfortable  and  happy.  He 
was  simply  an  old  tyrant,  inventing  tortures  for  ten 
little  children  ;  and  just  as  busy  moaning  and  beseech 
ing  the  Great  Giver  of  all  good  to  'keep  him  out  of  hell. 
He  never  once  dreamed  of  praying  to  be  kept  from 
doing  a  mean  act  so  that  he  would  not  deserve  the  tor 
tures  of  hell.  The  burden  of  his  whole  plea  was: 
"  God  save  me  at  last;  don't  punish  me;  don't  sift  my 
conduct;  but  take  me  straight  to  heaveu  without  ask 
ing  any  questions." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE    DINNER   PARTY. 

Lest  some  tender  soul  should  grieve  for  the  fate  of 
Mrs.  Smith,  with  her  six  small  children,  mentioned 
before,  we  will  tell  them  of  the  way  Mrs.  Ames  provided 
for  their  welfare  in  the  few  intervening  days  before 
her  marriage.  She  called  on  Mrs.  Judge  Seaton  first. 
The  Judge  beamed  a  good  morning  upon  her,  as  he 
stood  in  the  hall,  hat  in  hand,  ready  to  go  to  his  office. 

"  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you,  Judge;  I  did  not  expect  to, 
for  I  thought  you  would  be  gone  to  your  office.  You 
do  look  splendid  in  that  last  suit  I  made  for  you."  It 
was  a  drab-colored  broadcloth. 

The  Judge,  glancing  at  his  legs  and  then  at  his  arms, 
replied:  "It  is  comfortable — very." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  returned  Mrs.  Ames,  "  for  it 
does  not  prevent  you  from  expounding  the  law  with 
great  ease  and  composure."  Just  then  a  musical  voice 
was  heard  on  the  stairway,  calling: 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Ames,  do  come  right  up;  we've  heard 
something  about  you.  Dear  old  Dr.  Knight  was  here 
last  evening.  I  am  so  glad  for  you,"  continued  Mrs. 
Seaton,  kissing  her  rapturously.  "You  look  as  good 
as  a  ripe  peach  this  morning,  and  I  hope  your  intended 
is  as  grand  a  man  as  the  world  ever  produced.  He 
ought  to  be,  I  am  sure.  The  Judge  says  he  knows  him 
quite  well,  and  he  is  a  good  straightforward  man  in 
business;  a  little  awkward  and  peculiar,  perhaps,  but 
all  great  men  have  their  oddities.  I  know  you  have 
come  to  ask  me  to  be  your  bridesmaid,  but  I  have 
nothing  to  wear  but  my  pearl-gray  silk,  and  in  that  I 


42  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

should  outshine  the  bride,  and  that  would  not  do  at 
all." 

"  Oh,  you  would  outshine  the  bride  in  anything  you 
might  wear,  Mrs.  Seaton,"  returned  Mrs.  Ames,  "  so  I 
shall  dispense  with  a  bridesmaid  altogether;"  adding, 
"  You  have  not  guessed  my  errand,  and  never  could, 
so  I'll  just  tell  you  what  it  is.  I  am  so  glad  that  Dr. 
Knight  has  already  disclosed  my  secret  to  you."  And 
then  Mrs.  Ames  went  on  to  give  an  account  of  Mr. 
Sneekinswine's  risit,  and  Mrs.  Seaton's  eyes  snapped, 
and  she  looked  like  a  general  riding  to  victory  on  a 
field  of  battle  as  she  said: 

"All  the  work  of  my  household  shall  go  to  Mrs. 
Smith  after  this,  and  I  declare,  my  boys  do  wear  out 
their  clothes  so  fast  that  sewing  for  them  alone  will 
almost  support  Mrs.  Smith." 

The  two  ladies  talked  for  an  hour,  and  planned  for  a 
basket  dinner,  to  be  given  at  Mrs.  Smith's  on  the  next 
Tuesday  evening,  when  all  of  the  people  for  whom 
Mrs.  Ames  had  been  sewing  for  the  past  two  years 
should  be  especially  invited  to  come. 

As  there  were  few  people  in  that  town  who  had  the 
audacity  to  attempt  to  get  into  the  world  or  out  of  it 
without  the  assistance  of  dear  old  Dr.  Knight,  so  there 
was  not  a  woman  in  the  town  who  had  the  bravery  to 
get  up  a  party,  or  arrange  any  little  benevolent  scheme, 
without  the  encouragement  of  this  worthy  gentleman. 
They  could  come  to  no  definite  plans  without  first 
seeing  him.  Mrs.  Ames  called  on  the  doctor  as  she 
went  home,  but  he  was  ten  miles  out  in  the  country, 
and  his  wife  was  not  sure  that  he  would  be  at  home 
that  night.  She  left  word  with  this  cheery,  busy  wife 
for  the  doctor  to  corne,  the  next  afternoon,  to  her  house, 
or  as  soon  as  he  could.  The  doctor's  wife  said  that  she 
knew  he  would  be  glad  to  enter  into  any  plan  by 
which  Mrs.  Smith  would  be  assisted  in  making  a  living 
for  her  little  children,  and  that  Mrs.  Ames  could  de 
pend  upon  his  calling  at  his  earliest  convenience. 

Mrs.  Ames,  bidding  Mrs.  Knight  good-bye,  went 


THE  DINNER  PARTY.  43 

straight  home  to  find  Mr.  Boggs,  from  the  country 
awaiting  her.  Mr.  Bocrgs  was  a  brawny  Scotchman 
with  a  broad  brogue.  He  said  his  son  James  was  go 
ing  to  be  married  this  day  two  weeks,  and  insisted 
upon  Mrs.  Ames  making  his  wedding  suit.  The  cloth 
was  a  blue  tweed,  and  Airs.  Ames  was  greatly  tempted 
by  the  fine  goods  to  do  the  sewing.  Then  she  told  the 
story  of  Mrs.  Smith  and  her  six  children. 

The  honest  old  Scotchman  wiped  a  tear  from  his  eye, 
but  said  to  Mrs.  Ames,  "  Tha  puir  bie  ha  set  his  heart 
on'at  to  hav  you  mak  tha  suit,  and  he's  such  a  hond- 
some  bie,  it  'twa  be  a  pity  ta  disappoint  him,  and  the 
bonnie  lass  as  is  gang  to  ba  his  woif  is  as  particular  as 
can  ba." 

At  last,  Mrs.  Ames  promised  to  make  the  suit  if  Mr. 
Boggs  would  agree  to  have  all  the  work  from  his 
neighborhood  sent  to  Mrs.  Smith  in  the  future. 

44  Upon  ma  woord,  Mrs.  Ames,  it  twa  do  ma  sool 
ood  ta  help  tha  puir  widow,"  cheerfully  remarked  old 

r.  Boggs. 

The  next  day  Dr.  Knight  came,  according  to  request, 
and  was  greatly  surprised  to  find  Mrs.  Ames  busy 
again  with  her  needle.  She  laughingly  looked  into 
his  kind  but  surprised  eyes,  saying: 

"  Doctor,  I  think  I'll  give  up  that  foolish  idea,  and 
go  on  with  my  sewing." 

The  doctor  heaved  a  long,  deep  sigh,  and  looking  np 
at  the  ceiling,  said :  "  I  am  not  sure  but  it  would  be 
the  best  thing;  not  sure." 

Mrs.  Ames  dropped  her  needle  and  her  work  slid 
out  of  her  lap.  "  Why,  doctor,  you  alarm  me.'' 

The  old  doctor,  looking  at  her  with  all  the  tender 
ness  of  a  father,  continued  :  "  Was  there  ever  wisdom 
enough  in  this  world  to  enable  anybody  to  know 
beforehand  whether  or  not  a  marriage  would  be 
a  happy  one  ?  To  all  appearances,  as  far  as  I  can 
divine  or  look  into  futurity,  yours  promises  to  be  the 
right  step  for  both  parties.  Men  want  to  be  good  and 
they  want  to  be  happy,  but  they  don't  know  how  to 


44  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

take  care  of  their  wives.  There  is  not  one  man  in  a 
thousand  that  is  fit  to  take  charge  of  the  happiness 
of  a  woman,  and  yet  women  trust  them  implicitly. 
But,  my  dear,  what  did  you  want  to  talk  to  me  about 
this  afternoon — surely  not  about  weddings  and  such 
silly  things?" 

Then  Mrs.  Ames  swallowed  a  sob  that  was  about  to 
choke  her,  and  said:  "Why,  its  something  about 
planning  this  basket  dinner  for  Mrs.  Smith." 

"Well,  now,  my  dear,  don't  you  know  that  not 
many  of  these  fastidious,  dainty  creatures  would  go 
near  Mrs.  Smith,  not  even  if  they  were  invited  to  a 
funeral,  much  less  an  entertainment  to  prevent  any 
number  of  funerals." 

Mrs.  Ames  was  again  startled,  thinking  the  doctor 
was  going  to  throw  cold  water  on  her  proposed  mar 
riage,  and  was  also  opposed  to  giving  &id  to  Mrs. 
Smith.  What  had  come  over  the  doctor?  She  looked 
up  with  astonishment  and  asked:  "Doctor,  what  do 
you  mean?"  JBu-t  the  doctor,  who  knew  the  exact 
social  status  of  every  mortal  in  the  whole  county, 
coolly  replied:  "  My  dear,  send  out  your  invitations  for 
the  ladies  all  to  meet  here  at  your  house,  with  their 
baskets  overloaded  with  good  things  ;  they'll  everyone 
feel  flattered,  and  such  basting  and  brewing,  such 
mincing  and  stewing  as  you'll  set  going  hasn't  been 
done  in  the  last  year.  You  get  them  all  here,  and  I'll 
make  a  little  speech  explaining  everything,  and  put 
them  all  in  a  good  humor,  notwithstanding  their  dis 
appointment,  if  I  can,  and  will  head  the  procession 
over  to  Mrs.  Smith's.  The  poor  thing  is  about  prostrate 
with  grief,  since  she  has  lost  her  employment  at  the 
firm  of  Sneekinswine  &  Brassfielder.  She  sewed  for 
them  for  so  many  years,  and  has  not  the  least  bit  of 
faith  in  being  able  to  secure  for  herself  custom-work 
directly  from  the  people.  Poor  woman  !  there  is  some 
excuse  for  her.  I  don't  know  what  I  should  do  if  I 
were  thrown  out  of  my  practice  and  compelled  to  go 
into  a  drug-store.  I  would  feel  lost,  and  would  scarcely 


THE  DINNER  PARTY.  45 

know  where  to  begin.  Old  Badger  and  I  have  tramped 
day  and  night  over  the  prairies,  into  town  and  out  of 
town,  and  we  shouldn't  either  of  us  know  what  to  do 
if  we  didn't  keep  jog,  jogging  along;'7  and  pulling  on 
his  gloves,  he  said:  "This  won't  do.  I've  at  least  three 
more  patients  to  see  to-night.  Badger's  hungry  and 
tired,  and  ought  to  be  put  into  the  stable  to  feed  and  rest. 
'The  merciful  man  is  merciful  to  his  beast.'  I  will 
call  in  the  morning  and  take  some  of  your  invitations, 
if  you  will  have  them  ready,  Mrs.  Ames,  and  hand 
them  to  the  parties  myself.  Whatever  aid  I  can  give, 
you  can  depend  upon."  So  saying,  he  stepped  into 
his  buggy,  and  old  Badger  went  jogging  along.  The 
days  passed  quickly  by  and  the  evening  came,  and  with 
it  the  ladies,  their  baskets  brimful,  carried  by  grum 
bling  husbands,  smiling  lovers,  expectant  brothers, 
and  one  or  two  charmingly  brave  old  maids  trudging 
along  with  their  heavy  loads. 

Jean,  who  had  been  sent  by  her  mother  to  hint  to 
Mrs.  Smith  to  get  into  her  best  dress,  said,  in  her 
sweetest  accents:  "  Mrs.  Smith,  put  on  your  best  dress 
and  brush  up  your  hair.  Mamma  and  Dr.  Knight  are 
coming." 

But  Mrs.  Smith,  being  wholly  unused  to  pleasant 
surprises,  protested,  and  looking  in  her  very  worst 
plight,  answered: 

"I  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind.  The  doctor  has 
seen  me  in  my  worst  dress  many  and  many  a  time." 

Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  there  stood  the  doc 
tor,  Jean's  mother,  and  about  twenty  others,  and  un 
ceremoniously  all  tramped  into  the  little  room,  which 
was  already  quite  full  of  children,  there  being  three  or 
four  of  the  neighbors'  children  together  with  the  six 
little  Smiths;  but  Dr.  Knight,  who  was  in  a  dilemma 
every  day  of  his  life,  and  had  his  wits  sharpened  there 
by,  was  ready  for  emergencies. 

"  Open  the  dining-room  door,  and  the  kitchen,  too, 
Mrs.  Smith,  for  we've  all  come  to  pay  you  a  visit,  and 


46  THE    HEROINE    OP  '49. 

have  a  good  time.  Right  this  way,  gentlemeu;  I've 
been  here  before,  you  see/' 

And  soon  the  baskets  were  emptied  of  their  contents, 
and  such  a  sumptuous  feast  was  rarely  ever  spread  at 
any  gathering  that  that  town  had  seen  in  many  a  day. 
There  were  roast  turkeys  and  baked  chickens,  ham 
sandwiches,  tongue  sandwiches,  and  a  whole  roast  pig, 
with  a  corn  nubbin  in  his  mouth,  which  made  all  the 
children  clap  their  hands  in  fun  to  see.  There  were 
boiled  hams ;  there  were  tarts  and  pies  and  jams,  jellies 
and  canned  fruits;  and  there  were  cheese  and  pickles, 
and  such  heaps  of  bread,  and  such  rolls  of  fresh  butter, 
and  such  piles  of  great,  snowy  cake,  to  say  nothing  of 
the  cookies  and  gingersnaps  and  gingercracks  and 
candies. 

They  soon  all  fell  to,  and  the  noise  and  laughter  and 
merriment,  eating  and  drinking,  and  general  good  hu 
mor,  was  heightened  by  the  oddity  of  the  whole  scene; 
and  the  funny  jokes  that  went  round.  No  one  knew 
what  it  all  meant,  excepting  the  old  doctor,  Mrs.  Ames 
and  Mrs.  Judge  Beaton,  and  they  did  not  tell  until  a 
late  hour.  As  each  and  everyone  was  acknowledging 
to  Mrs.  Smith  that  they  never  had  enjoyed  themselves 
so  much  any  evening  in  their  whole  lives  as  they  had 
that  evening,  the  old  doctor  said  he  wished  to  extract, 
not  their  teeth,  but  a  promise  from  them  all  that  they 
would  bring  all  the  sewing  that  they  had  brought  to 
Mrs.  Ames  to  Mrs.  Smith  henceforth  and  forever,  or  as 
long  as  they  required  raiment,  since  none  of  them  knew 
better  than  he,  and  his  voice  grew  sad  as  he  said  it, 
"  there  comes  a  time  to  us  all  when  we  are  no  more  in 
need  of  clothes,  no  more  in  need  of  human  help;  then 
let  us  be  as  kind  to  each  other  as  we  can  while  we  may," 
and  they  were  all  glad  to  promise.  Mrs.  Smith,  with  a 
more  radiant  smile  than  anybody  remembered  ever  to 
have  seen  on  her  face  before,  said  she  thanked  them 
everyone  from  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  and  tears  were 
just  on  the  verge  of  coming,  when  her  little  five-year- 


THE  DINNER  PARTY.  47 

old  Ted  jumped  like  a  squirrel  upon  the  table  spread 
over  with  good  things,  and  glancing  quickly  at  the  table, 
then  at  the  people,  with  hands  spread  like  an  eagle's 
wings,  said:  "  I  thank  you  all,"  and  with  a  bound  like 
a  dart  jumped  to  the  floor  and  hid  under  the  table. 
This  electrified  the  whole  company;  their  uproarious 
laughter  was  something  to  be  remembered. 

One  burst  of  merriment,  and  Mrs.  Smith  was  alone 
with  her  children  and  the  loaded  tables,  for  she  de 
clared  she  could  not  see  that  a  mouse  had  nibbled  off 
the  feast,  and  many  of  the  good  things  lasted  her  and 
the  children  a  whole  month.  She  also  discovered  two 
big  hams  and  a  side  of  bacon  nicely  sewed  up  in  cloths, 
uncooked,  but  garnished  with  parsley  leaves,  and  ex 
claimed  to  the  children:  "  Dear  Doctor  Knight  has 
done  this — dear,  kind-hearted  old  soul." 

Next  morning,  Yates,  the  big-hearted  baker,  came 
with  his  bread- wagon,  and  said  : 

"Halloa  there,  Mrs.  Smith;  I  see  by  the  party  you 
had  last  night  you  hav  too  much  brod  for  you  and  de 
shildren  to  eat  up  in  von  month,  so  I  tot,  if  you  vil  al 
low  me,  I'll  shust  tak  von  basketful  and  sell  it  to  my 
gustomers  and  next  veek  I  vill  bring  you  some  more 
vat  is  vresh  again." 

And  Mrs.  Smith  replied,  "That  is  a  good  idea,  and 
you're  very  obliging,  indeed.  It  looks  now  as  if  my 
self  and  children  could  hardly  starve  in  this  town,  Mr. 
Yates." 

"I should  tink  not,  in  this  corn  and  hog  country," 
said  the  baker,  and  his  face  shone  like  a  bake-oven  all 
in  a  glow,  as  he  clambered  into  his  wagon  and  drove 
away. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PARENTAL  AUTHORITY. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  had  been  married  a  month.  It  was 
Sunday  evening;  the  boys,  Ben  and  Thomas  Ames,  had 
come  out  to  spend  the  day  with  their  mother,  and  see 
Jean,  who  was  getting  to  be  quite  a  tall  girl,  have  a 
romp  with  their  younger  brothers,  and  get  acquainted 
with  their  new  step-brother,  a  quiet  blond  boy  of  the 
same  age  as  Thomas  Ames.  When  the  two  boys  were 
together  the  contrast  was  so  great,  that  no  one  could 
help  noticing  it. 

Thomas  Ames  was  a  brown-haired  boy,  with  dark 
keen  eyes,  that  met  your  own  with  a  pleased  gracious 
expression,  one  that  spoke  as  plain  as  words:  "  All  the 
best  there  is  in  me  is  at  your  command.  I  wish  to 
please  you,  and  expect  you  to  be  pleased  with  me. 
Nothing  can  hinder  my  walking  the  earth  a  buoyant, 
expectant  lad.  There  is  a  wealth  of  goodness,  and 
possible  greatness  in  me,  and  I  have  no  need  of  curb 
ing  any  of  my  best  endeavors  to  please." 

Dan  Murdstone  was  quite  as  handsome  a  boy,  with 
fine  blue  eyes.  He  was  quiet  and  shy.  Every  act  was 
constrained  and  hesitating,  which  made  him  awkward 
in  the  extreme.  He  did  not  dare  to  speak  above  a 
whisper  even  when  the  boys  were  at  play  among  them 
selves,  and  on  no  account  would  ever  speak  in  the 
house  to  anyone,  and  if  spoken  to  would  answer  only 
in  monosyllables.  He  was  not  a  modest,  sensitive,  re 
tiring  boy,  not  that  at  all,  but  a  stolid,  alert,  watchful 
spirit,  determined  not  to  be  surprised  by  the  enemy, 
who  would  promptly  forbid  any  Doyish  sports,  or  still 
worse,  wreak  dire  punishment  upon  him.  A  day  spent 
with  this  boy,  the  only  son  of  Mr.  Murdstone,  waa 


PARENTAL  AUTHORITY.  49 

enough  for  Ben  and  Thomas  Ames ;  they  had  no  notion 
of  submitting  to  tyranny  that  would  make  them  into 
such  boys  as  Dan  Murdstone  appeared  to  them  to  be. 
Ben  had  just  been  saying  to  his  mother:  "  We  have 
made  up  our  minds  that  we  can  never  come  to  live  at 
Hickory  Hall,"  and  he  held  her  in  a  long  and  tender 
embrace,  saying:  "For  your  sake,  dear  mother,  I  would 
come,  but  it  would  not  help  matters,  not  a  bit." 

He  was  as  tall  as  she  now  and  grown  quite  manly. 
"  No,"  she  whispered,  "you  are  right  my  son;  there 
are  enough  of  us  here  now,  quite  enough,"  she  added 
loud  enough  for  Mr.  Murdstone  to  hear  the  last  words, 
knowing  this  would  accord  with  his  feelings. 

Thomas  was  kissing  his  new  sisters  all  a  good-by 
that  made  more  merriment  than  was  usual  in  that  house. 
A  cloud  was  gathering  on  Mr.  Murdstone's  face  that 
made  Dan  tremble  with  fear;  but  Master  Thomas,  all 
unmindful  of  terror,  never  stopped  till  every  girl  in  the 
house  had  been  given  a  rapturous  good-by,  and  walking 
up  to  his  step-father  reached  his  hand  in  his  gallant 
fashion,  and  with  great  deference  bade  his  towering 
step-father  good-night;  said  he  had  had  a  fiue  visit  at 
the  hall,  and  hoped  it  would  be  his  good  fortune  to 
visit  it  often,  adding  a  request  that  his  new  brother 
might  spend  a  day  with  him  in  town.  Mr.  Murdstone 
was  pleased  with  the  deference  the  bov  showed  him, 
but  he  acknowledged  it  by  no  token  or  sign.  The  boys 
took  his  hand  and  let  go.  It  fell  listlessly  at  his  sid'e. 
Master  Thomas  bowed  to  his  mother  a  little  coldly, 
she  thought,  the  boys  jumped  into  the  buggy  and  drove 
rapidly  away.  That  was  the  only  day  the  whole  ten 
children  ever  spent  together;  and  they  ever  held  it  in 
remembrance. 

After  the  boys  had  driven  out  of  sight  of  Hickory 
Hall,  Thomas  said :  "Ben,  do  stop  driving  so  fast,  I 
want  to  talk." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  say  a  word,"  replied  Ben, 
pulling  up  the  reins. 

Then  Thomas  asked  Ben:  "How  could  you  stop  to 


50  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

kiss  mother  good-by.  If  I  had,  I  should  have  turned 
and  clutched  old  Murdstone's  throat.  I  could  not 
have  helped  it.  Did  you  ever  see  such  a  suppressed 
boy  in  your  life  as  Dan  Murdstone  is  ?  That  boy  has 
beenfbeat  every  day  of  his  life,  and  I  should  think 
twenty  times  a  day  by  the  way  he  acts. "  Ben  answered  : 

"  Why  did  I  not  go  and  see  old  Murdstone  and  his 
children  before  mother  married  him  ?  I  was  a  boy,  and 
could  not  think  of  interfering  in  such  matters, "he  said, 
as  if  talking  to  himself,  "but  I'm  a  man  now.  I  be 
lieve  my  hair  has  turned  gray  to-day,"  and  he  took  his 
hat  off  and  pulled  his  brown  curls. 

"  Well,"  said  Thomas,  /'  I  don't  feel  so  bad  about  it 
for  mother,  as  I  do  for  his  own  children.  But  wont  he 
have  a  merry  time  whipping  those  children  with 
mother  in  the  house?  She  won't  christianize  him;  oh, 
no.  He's  already  a  Christian.  Did  you  ever  hear  such 
a  long  blessing  given  at  the  table,  Ben  ?  She'll  human 
ize  him,  mother  will." 

"Well,"  said  Ben,  "what  a  philosopher  you  are. 
Humanize  him,  indeed.  It  would  take  a  far  longer 
and  harder  tussle  to  humanize  him  than  the  wild 
est  gorilla  that  ever  was  caughb  in  South  America. 
Just  imagine  his  long  arms  swinging  a  whip  over  a 
boy's  back.  Do  you  wonder  that  poor  Dan  lives  in 
perpetual  terror  ?  You  wouldn't  think  him  so  easy  to 
humanize  if  you  had  seen  his  face  grow  black,  as  I  did, 
when  you  were  raising  that  rumpus,  kissing  the  girls 
good-by."  "That little  child,  Nell,"  said  Tom,  "is  the 
prettiest  child  I  ever  saw;  sweet  as  a  rosebud,  and  a 
gentle  and  affectionate  little  creature,  too,  and  they  all 
love  our  mother  as  much  as  we  do." 

Ben  was  older  than  Thomas,  and  felt  that  he  was  in 
some  sense  responsible  for  his  mother's  happiness. 
His  young  blood  made  him  restive.  How  was  he  to 
live  and  know  that  his  mother,  his  sister  Jean,  and  his 
younger  brothers  were  daily  subject  to  cruelty,  his 
lovely,  cultured  mother  doing  all  the  menial  labor  for 
all  that  big  family.  Ben  grew  savage,  took  the  whip 


PARENTAL  AUTHORITY.  51 

from  its  socket,  and  struck  the  horse  a  fierce  blow  that 
made  him  rear  and  plunge,  and  finally  run  until  he 
had  all  he  could  do  to  hold  him. 

That  night  he  moaned  out  a  prayer,  and  awoke  next 
morning  with  a  headache.  He  said  to  himself.  ' '  I  must 
stop  thinking  of  old  Murdstone,  or  I  shall  be  a  lunatic 
in  less  than  a  week." 

If  the  boys  could  have  looked  back  over  that  long 
stretch  of  road,  through  the  waving  corn-fields,  and 
past  the  bendiog  orchards,  that  night  as  they  were  driv 
ing  home,  this  is  what  they  would  have  seen : 

Little  Alfred  in  his  mother's  arms,  he  being  fretful 
and  she  wearied  with  the  cares  of  the  day.  She  stepped 
to  a  fence  near  by,  which  separated  the  door-yard 
from  the  corn-field,  and  seated  Alfred  on  the  top  rail 
under  the  leafy  canopy  of  a  peach-tree  bough  that  was 
loaded  with  forbidden  fruit  —  Mr.  Murdstone  having 
told  the  family  not  to  pick  those  peaches.  This  amused 
the  child  for  a  moment,  when,  with  a  scream  of  delight 
he  reached  his  little  hand  and  snatched  a  ripe  peach 
that  hung  near  his  head. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  saw  her  husband  coming  with  rapid 
strides,  and  took  the  child  in  her  arms,  saying:  "My 
precious  child,  how  could  I  have  put  you  up  there  ?  " 
He,  without  saying  a  word,  jerked  the  child  from  its 
mother's  clinging  arms  with  a  hard,  cold,  determined 
jerk  that  would  have  torn  its  little  arm  from  its  socket 
if  the  mother  had  not  let  go;  then  breaking  a  limb  from 
the  tree,  he  whipped  the  little  three-year-old  child  un 
mercifully.  The  poor  little  fellow,  who  never  was  struck 
before  in  his  life,  was  frightened  almost  to  death.  Jean, 
the  dauntless  Jean,  ran  to  her  brother,  took  him  in 
her  arms  and  tried  to  soothe  him,  but,  as  soon  as  he 
could  speak  for  the  pain  and  choking  and  strangling 
and  crying,  he  cried  out,  like  one  making  a  terrible 
struggle  for  help,  "  Mamma,  oh,  mamma! " 

That  cry  went  to  his  mother's  heart.  She  was  tremb 
ling  like  a  leaf,  but  did  not  dare  to  reach  her  hand  to 
her  poor,  bruised,  defenseless  child,  but  her  heart  could 


52  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

and  did  go  out  in  a  great  silent  cry  to  God  for  mercy. 
Jean  was  outraged  at  what  seemed  to  her  like  cowardice 
in  her  mother,  but  which  was  really  schooled  wisdom, 
and  she  took  her  little  brother  and  let  him  slide  into 
his  mother's  lap.  Then  she  confronted  Murdstone,  the 
first  time  any  human  being  ever  had,  and  it  was  a  new 
experience  to  that  gentleman.  She  said,  with  defiance 
blazing  in  her  eyes:  "  Don't  you  ever  strike  my 
brother  again.  If  you  must  beat  little  children ,  beat 
your  own,  and  let  their  mother  in  heaven  look  down 
on  the  cruelty,  and  stay  God's  vengeance  from  your 
head,  if  she  can." 

No  words  the  child  could  have  spoken  could  have  af 
fected  Mr.  Murdstone  as  these  did.  He  was  white  as 
death.  Jean  knew  by  his  prayers  that  he  was  a  coward, 
and  mistook  his  dyspepsia  for  religion;  but  in  a  moment, 
however,  he  rallied  from  his  terror,  and  clutched  a 
limb  of  that  historic  peach  tree  with  such  force  that 
one-half  of  the  tree  with  its  weight  of  precious  fruit, 
fell  at  his  feet.  It  had  been  propped  up  on  that  side, 
having  shown  signs  of  weakness  under  its  bending  load, 
but  prop  and  all  now  came  to  the  ground.  This  mishap 
terrorized  him  still  worse,  for  he  thought  he  saw  the 
vengeance  of  God  at  hand,  but  he  was  so  used  to  whip 
ping  the  children  that  nothing  could  deter  him  from  his 
strong  force  of  habit.  He  broke  off  quite  a  large,  but 
now  useless  limb  from  the  fallen  trunk,  and  commenced 
wearing  it  out  in  a  most  vigorous  manner  over  Jean's 
shoulders.  Jean,  instead  of  running  to  her  mother,  as 
he  thought  she  would,  stood  like  a  heroine  as  she  was, 
and  took  his  blows,  while  he  with  his  towering  pride 
and  rage,  cowed  under  her  words  of  contempt.  "A 
noble  father,  beating  a  little  girl!  Oh,  I  shall  respect 
you  all  my  life  for  this,"  she  hissed  at  him;  "but  you 
will  never  make  me  a  poor,  frightened,  trembling  thing 
like  that,"  she  said,  pointing  to  Kate  Murdstone,  who 
had  begged  Jean  not  to  say  a  word  when  her  father  was 
whipping  little  Alfred.  Jean  had  pushed  her  off,  say 
ing:  "Not  if  he  kills  me,  will  I  keep  still."  The  en- 


PARENTAL  AUTHORITY.  53 

raged  brute,  as  intoxicated  with  anger  as  ever  a  man 
was  with  whisky,  glanced  at  Kate  as  Jean  pointed  to 
her,  and  the  poor  girl,  under  that  angry  look,  fell 
violently  to  weeping.  This  roused  him  still  more,  and 
he  struck  Jean  one  fearful  blow  that  sent  her  reeling 
against  her  mother,  and  then  flew  at  Kate  with  such 
vengeance  that  Mrs.  Murdstone  had  to  interfere.  Put 
ting  her  hand  quietly  on  his  arm,  she  said:  "  Father, 
father!" — with  such  a  wail — "just  stop,  do,  and  think 
what  you  are  doing."  He  did  stop,  but  not  until  the 
girl's  flesh  was  cruelly  welted. 

Just  then,  Dan,  his  eldest  son,  a  boy  of  twelve,  who 
had  been  to  drive  the  cows  home,  had  the  misfortune 
to  come  at  the  wrong  moment.  He  took  in  the  situa 
tion  quicker  than  a  flash,  and  started  to  run.  His  run 
ning  was  a  crime.  Murdstone  called  him  back.  The 
boy  had  nothing  on  but  a  straw  hat  and  thin  shirt  and 
pants.  Every  blow  the  father  dealt  made  a  welt  as  big 
as  one's  finger  on  the  boy's  tender  flesh.  It  had  been 
a  hot  day,  and  the  boy  had  played  harder  that  day  with 
his  new  brothers  than  he  was  accustomed  to  do.  He 
was  looking  for  his  mother  to  tell  her  how  bad  his  head 
ached,  when  the  brute  he  called  father  accosted  him. 
The  fear  and  anger  together,  so  overcame  the  boy  that 
he  grew  deathly  sick.  He  sat  down  on  the  door-step 
and  wailed : 

"  Oh,  mother,"  and  she  was  at  his  side  in  an  instant. 

The  boy  was  white  as  death  and  limp  as  a  rag.  She 
looked  beseechingly  to  Murdstone  and  said: 

"  He  is  dying." 

He  rallied  soon,  however,  and  vomited,  and  together 
they  carried  him  into  the  house  and  laid  him  on  her 
own  bed.  Everything  was  soon  done  that  could  be, 
but  it  was  plain  that  he  would  have  brain  fever. 

That  night,  Mr.  Murdstone  said  the  same  long  grace 
at  supper.  No  one  heard  it  but  his  wife.  He  took  no 
notice  of  her  wan  face,  nor  asked  why  the  children 
were  not  there.  He  knew  they  would  rather  go  supper- 
less  to  bed  than  see  his  face  again  that  night.  He 


64 


HEROINE    OF  '40. 


wanted  to  rule,  and  he  sat  there  in  his  princely  author 
ity — over  the  dishes— *and  wielded  his  knife  and  fork 
as  though  nothing  had  happened,  and  that  night  slept 
iust  as  soundly  as  though  he  was  monarch  of  a  throne, 
had  conquered  an  army,  and  hundreds  lay  weltering  in 
thei^Jplood,  while  he  was  crowned  with  laurels  of  his 
own  tain  imaginings. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

MUBDSTONB'S  BEPENTANOE. 

That  night  Mrs.  Murdstoae  sat  by  the  bedside  of 
little  Daia,  who  was  quite  delirious,  throwing  hia  arms 
about,  muttering  in  his  sleep,  and  writhing  in  pain. 
She  put  cold  cloths  on  his  head.  There  should  have 
been  hot  cloths  laid  all  along  the  spine.  They  would 
have  relieved  the  nervous  irritation.  When  the  boy 
grew  more  quiet  she  knelt  down  and  asked  God  for 
guidance  in  her  great  need.  Once  she  thought  she 
would  call  Danny's  father,  and  crept  timorously  to  his 
room.  He  was  sleeping  so  soundly  that  he  did  not 
wake  at  her  call,  so  she  crept  softly  back  to  find  Danny 
awake  and  in  his  right  mind. 

"Don't  call  him,''  he  said,  "he'll  whip  me  to-mor 
row  if  you  do.'* 

"  Oh,  no,  Danny,  he  wont  ever  whip  you  again.  I 
have  asked  God  to  keep  your  father  from  getting 
angry  at  you.  He  will  hear  our  prayer,  my  child,  I 
know  he  will.1' 

"My  mother,  oh,my  mother,"  he  sobbed.  She  stooped 
and  kissed  him,  and  held  him  to  her  breast  until  he 
was  quieted.  Then  he  said:  "  I  am  so  glad  my  mother 
is  dead.  She  was  not  like  you.  It  broke  her  heart;  it 
killed  her.  Do  you  think  she  sees  you  now  so  kind  to 
me?  Do  you  think  she  can  see  all  the  way  from 
heaven?" 

"Yes,  my  child,"  she  answered,  "she  is  right  here 
to-night,  helping  me  to  nurse  you." 

"I  don't  know,"  he  moaned,  "she  was  afraid  to  do 
anything  for  me  when  she  was  alive." 

"  Well,  I  will  lie  down  beside  you,  and  perhaps  we 


66  THE    HEROINE   OF  '40. 

can  go  to  sleep,"  whispered  Mrs.  Murdstone,  sooth 
ingly. 

He  tried  to  turn,  but  found  racking  pain  in  everj 
muscle,  and  then  asked:  "  Do  you  think  there  is  a 
hell?  He'll  go  there  if  there  is.  My  mother  always 
said  he  would,  and  I  know  he  will,  too." 

Kext  morning  Dan  was  in  such  a  high  fever  that 
even  Mr.  Murdstone  himself  was  alarmed,  and  sent  for 
Dr.  Knight.  In  a  few  hours  the  doctor  was  there,  ex 
amined  the  boy's  pulse,  looked  at  his  tongue,  asked  a 
great  many  questions,  and  shook  his  head  mysterious 
ly,  saying: 

"  This  is  not  like  an  ordinary  fever  case — tongue  not 
coated.  This  is  not  bilious  malaria.  Murdstone,  I 
think  the  boy  will  have  to  be  bled,  to  relieve  the  con 
gestion  of  the  brain,"  he  continued,  pushing  up  Dan's 
sleeve  for  that  purpose. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  quickly  but  gently  protested,  feeling 
sure  that  the  doctor  would  see  the  bruises  on  the  boy's 
arm. 

Murdstone,  who  had  been  standing  by  the  bedside, 
suddenly  thought  of  the  doctor's  horse,  and  went  to 
put  it  in  the  barn.  Dr.  Knight  was  not  going  to  allow 
his  medical  advice  to  be  so  easily  set  aside,  so  took  the 
arm  of  the  unconscious  boy,  and,  turning  up  his  sleeve 
.deliberately,  there  to  his  horror  found  the  great  welts 
and  bruises,  and  exclaimed: 

"  Why,  Mrs.  Murdstone,  what  is  this?  "  Then  she 
gave,  through  her  tears,  a  short  and  wonderfully  pal 
liated  description  of  the  scene  that  ha4  taken  place  the 
night  before.  The  doctor,  listening  to  the  story, 
gently  laid  the  bedclothes  aside  and  examined  the 
back  and  limbs  of  the  suffering  child. 

"  The  only  thing  that  can  be  done,  Mrs.  Murdstone, 
is  to  soothe  these  wounds  with  a  dressing  of  sweet 
cream.  Oh,  yes,  he  will  live;  but  it  will  be  weeks  be 
fore  he  will  be  out  of  this  bed.  It  was  the  fright  and 
the  anger  that  affected  his  brain;  so  it  will  take  much 
longer  for  the  nerves  to  recover  than  the  muscles,"  and 


Do  you  think  she  can  see  all  the  way  from  heaven  ? " 


MURDSTONE'S  REPENTANCE.  57 

then  he  added  to  himself,  "Murdstone  ought  to  be 
dealt  with  in  the  church  for  this."  Then  to  Mrs. 
Murdstone:  "  I  will  take  Murdstone  to  town  for  some 
medicine  for  little  Dan.  I  will  give  him  a  talking  to, 
and  see  if  he  beats  me  too." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Murdstone,  "Kate  and  Jean's 
arms  and  shoulders  are  just  as  badly  bruised  as  the 
boys',  but  their  dresses  protected  their  limbs." 

Dr.  Knight  looked  at  Mrs.  Murdstone' s  wan  face,  and 
said:  "Why,  how  can  you  endure  this?  I  should 
think  you  would  leave  him;  the  man  must  be  crazy." 

"Leave  him!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Murdstone,  "and 
leave  these  poor  motherless  orphans;  disgrace  myself 
and  little  children  ?  ISTo;  you  don't  know  me,  Doctor 
Knight.  With  God's  help  and  yours,  I  hope  to  per 
suade  Mr.  Murdstone  to  control  his  terrible  temper. 
That  is  the  only  remedy." 

Dr.  Knight  staid,  watching  the  boy's  symptoms, 
until  dinner  was  announced.  As  soon  as  the*meal  was 
over,  the  two  men  started  on  their  long  ride  to  town. 
Murdstone  was  attacked  by  one  of  his  depressed  states, 
bordering  on  the  melancholy  of  insanity.  The  quick 
eye  of  the  man  of  science  saw  this,  and  saw,  too,  that 
the  man  must  be  quietly  managed,  or  the  cruelty  of 
words  from  him  might  be  much  greater  to  Mr.  Murd 
stone  than  his  blows  had  been  to  the  sensitive  nerves  of 
Dan — with  this  difference,  that  the  one  man  struck  his 
blows  in  ignorance  of  the  wrong  he  was  doing,  while 
he  believed  himself  to  be  doing  a  duty.  The  doctor 
could  not  plead  ignorance,  and  therefore  had  to  be 
cautious  and  merciful  as  the  gentle  dew  that  falls  from 
heaven  when  most  needed,  at  the  time  when  the  fierce 
sun  withers  and  scorches  the  tender  plant. 

The  old  doctor  was  a  medium-sized,  round,  plump, 
man,  who  settled  himself  into  the  well-worn  cushion  of 
his  old-fashioned  gig  in  a  most  comfortable  manner, 
and  let  old  Badger  jog  along  over  the  smooth  road  in 
the  warm  afternoon  sunshine.  Dr.  Knight  had  intended 
giving  Mr.  Murdstone  the  hardest  talking  to  he  had 


58  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

ever  given  a  man  in  his  whole  life,  but  one  of  his 
sighs,  as  he  seated  himself  beside  the  doctor,  together 
with  his  dejected  look,  caused  him  to  change  his  mind 
and  he  pulled  his  hat  over  his  eyes,  gave  Murdstone 
the  reins,  and  in  two  minutes  was  taking  a  refreshing 
nap.  Murdstone  was  restless,  pulled  old  Badger  this 
way  and  that,  and  finally  got  into  a  quarrel  with  the 
plodding,  patient  old  horse,  and  reached  over  to  get 
the  whip.  Old  Doctor  Knight  was  awake  in  a  moment 
and  arrested  his  hand,  exclaiming: 

"  No,  not  for  your  life,  Murdstone — don't  do  that  P' 

Then  he  took  the  lines  and  the  whip  to  put  it  back 
in  its  socket,  adding :  "  I  never  struck  my  horse  nor 
my  dog,  my  wife  nor  my  children,  in  my  life,  and  Murd 
stone,  had  I  known  that  you  did,  I  should  as  soon 
have  asked  Mrs.  Ames  to  build  a  funeral  pyre  and 
burn  herself  alive  as  to  have  asked  her  to  marry 
you.7' 

The  doctor  wiped  a  tear  away  as   he   continued: 

"  You  are  dear  to  me  as  a  brother,  but  I  must  tell 
you  that  /have  not  skill  enough  to  save  your  son.  If 
your  wife's  nursing  and  God's  mercy  will  spare  him  he 
will  live,  but  nothing  I  can  do  will  save  him.  If 
you  had  been  considerate  and  tender  with  him  as  a 
father  ought,  you  would  have  seen  this  fever  coming 
in  the  boy's  languor,  and  by  gentle  sympathy  have 
soothed  his  headache  yesterday,  instead  of  making  him 
so  much  worse  by  giving  him  such  a  terrible  whip 
ping." 

"Why,  what  am  I  to  do,"  asked  Murdstone;  "have 
no  authority  in  my  own  house  ?" 

"Why,  man  alive,  yes,  all  the  authority  in  the 
world,  but  not  that  kind;  such  harsh,  not  to  say  cruel 
treatment  of  children,  is  not  the  kind  to  be  given  by 
the  father  of  little  children.  It  is  all  habit,  Murd 
stone.  Now,  see  me  stop  old  Badger;  a  feather's 
weight  on  this  line  will  stop  him,"  and  with  the  slight 
est  touch,  the  horse  stood  still. 

"  Oh  yes,"  said  Murdstone,  "  that's  very  different. 


MURDSTONE'S  REPENTANCE.  59 

He  wanted  to  stop,  but  you  just  start  him  up  and  see  if 
it  don't  take  a  little  more  force." 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  old  doctor,  "If  I  just  take  the 
lines  in  the  most  quiet  way,  giving  old  Badger  the 
slightest  hint  of  my  wish,  he  will  jog  on,"  and  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word,  sure  enough,  up  trotted  the  old 
horse. 

"  Now,  Murdstone,  don't  I  exercise  as  much  author 
ity  over  my  horse  by  these  gentle  means  as  I  should 
if  I  used  the  greatest  violence?  It  is  just  so  with  my 
children,  and  you  can  do  the  same,  Murdstone,  if  I 
can." 

"  I  used  to  whip  the  children  too  much3  I  think  my 
self,  when  they  were  little,"  confessed  Murdstone,  "  but 
I  have  not  so  much  since  their  mother  died,  for  they 
were  her  last  words:  "Don't  whip  the  children,"  and 
they  ring  in  my  ears  for  days  after  I  have  whipped  one 
of  the  children." 

"  I  should  think  then  you  would  be  very  careful  how 
you  ever  let  your  temper  get  so  much  the  better  of 
you  as  to  strike  one  of  them,"  said  the  doctor  firmly. 

"  Temper?"  cried  Murdstone. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "  temper  and  bad  rearing. 
I  would  venture  anything  now,  Murdstone,  that  you 
grew  up  under  the  most  stringent,  if  not  the  most 
absolutely  tyrannical  domestic  discipline.  Is  it  not  so  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Murdstone,  "if  to  be  boxed  on  the 
head  by  the  great,  heavy  hands  of  my  five  old-maid 
sisters,  until  I  went  spinning  to  the  other  side  of  the 
room,  about  fifty  times  a  day,  was  tyranny,  then  I  had 
it.  I  believe  it  is  the  cause  of  these  awful  headaches 
I  have  so  much  now." 

"  It  is  very  probable,"  replied  the  doctor.  "  To  box 
a  child  on  the  head  like  that  is  a  fruitful  cause  of  deaf 
ness,  and  such  treatment  as  you  speak  of  would  cause 
the  death  of  any  child  in  the  world,  if  he  had  not  that 
tough,  muscular  development  that  you  are  endowed 
with,  my  friend.  One  of  your  children  would  not  live 
a  week  if  they  had  to  go  through  such  an  ordeal. 


60  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

What  were  your  parents  thinking  of  to  allow  it,  Murd- 
stone?  " 

"  My  father  died  before  I  was  born.  My  mother  did 
often  shield  me  from  a  hard  knock,  I  tell  you." 

The  doctor  looked  at  Murdstone  in  pity,  saying : 

"  What  a  spoiled  childhood !  How  sorry  I  am  for 
you.  What  a  warped,  hard,  dwarfed  life  yours  has 
been.  I  am  sorry  for  you  in  my  very  heart." 

"Is  my  child  so  sure  to  die,  then,  doctor?"  said 
Murdstone.  "And  you  think  he  would  not,  if  I  had 
not  whipped  him  yesterday?  God's  hand  is  heavy 
upon  me,  surely.  He  is  my  only  son.  This  is  very 
hard,  very  hard,  Dr.  Knight,"  and  he  leaned  back  and 
groaned  aloud. 

The  light  was  breaking  in  on  the  doctor.  He  was 
finding  that  Murdstone  had  really  got  a  heart,  and 
could  grieve  at  the  thought  of  doing  a  wrong  to  his 
child,  but  the  man  had  such  a  hard,  selfish  nature  that 
it  took  the  fiercest  affliction  to  thaw  it  out  so  that  even 
the  old  doctor  could  discern  the  better  part  of  the  man. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  have  never  had 
such  a  wrenching  since  I  commenced  the  practice  of 
medicine.  I  would  never  see  another  case  while  I  live 
if  I  had  to  encounter  another  like  this,  Murdstone — 
not  if  I  knew  it.  I  have  been  through  many  trying 
cases,  that  you  know,  but  nothing  like  this,  nothing." 

"You  have  no  hope,  doctor,"  he  said,  again,  "no 
hope? " 

"  What  words?  "  repeated  the  doctor.  "  No  hope 
that  you  will  change  into  a  reasonable,  tender,  kind, 
thoughtful  father,  as  you  ought  to  be — as  you  ought  to 
have  been  yesterday,  Murdatone  ?  Your  wife  believes 
in  your  having  the  ability  to  control  your  temper ;  but 
I  must  confess  I  have  no  hope.  The  boy  may  live  with 
her  nursing,  but,  Murdstone,  he  had  better  die  than 
live  in  perpetual  fear  of  you.  All  the  sweet,  tender 
love  of  his  young  life  turned  into  demoralizing  fear  and 
possible  hatred  of  his  father.  No  hope!  Gods!  to  be  a 
physician.  Why  I  would  rather  be  a  hangman,  and 


MURDSTONE'S  REPENTANCE.  61 

done  with  it — a  hangman,  Murdstone.  Why,  that  dead 
man  whose  children  I  thought  you  would  be  a  father 
to,  was  my  dearest  friend.  I  loved  him.  Your  wife  is 
a  pitying  angel,  I  held  in  high  esteem.  Mrs.  Murd- 
stone,  whom  I  have  so  basely  wronged  in  that  I  asked 
her  to  listen  to  you  kindly,  is  to  me  as  a  sweet  sister, 
and  you  I  have  loved,  Murdstone,  and  pitied.  Oh,  how 
I  have  and  do  pity  you.  Now,  if  your  child  dies,  will 
you,  Murdstone,  see  in  its  death  God's  chastening 
hand,  and  try  to  see  the  way  to  lead  your  children  and 
not  drive  them?  Tell  me,  Murdstone,  will  you,  living 
or  dying,  try  to  lead  your  children  to  do  right?  And  1 
will  try  to  pluck  up  courage  and  go  on  with  the  case. 
God  may  spare  his  chastening  rod  in  mercy  this  time." 
Murdstone  was  bent  under  his  great  grief,  his  head 
almost  down  to  his  knees  ;  the  tears  were  blinding  his 
eyes.  They  were  at  the  drug-store  as  the  horse  stood 
still.  Murdstone  silently  pressed  the  doctor's  hand,  and 
silently  they  got  out,  the  doctor  to  compound  the  rem 
edies  required  for  the  sick  boy,  and  Murdstone  to  go  to 
the  church-yard,  to  the  grave  of  his  wife.  There  he  knelt 
and  took  a  vow  never  to  strike  his  son  again  if  God 
would  hear  only  his  prayer.  He  had  not  long  to  linger. 
There  were  no  flowers  on  the  poor,  neglected  grave. 
No  flowers  had  bloomed  for  her  in  life.  Why  should 
they  mock  her  in  her  peaceful  grave?  They  did  not. 
Murdstone  picked  up  a  little  piece  of  the  stone  that 
had  crumbled  from  that  which  marked  her  resting- 
place.  This  he  hastily  put  into  his  pocket  to  remind, 
him  of  his  vow.  The  stone  wore  smooth  with  time, 
but  not  until  it  had  worn  many  a  hole  through  his 
pants  that  Mrs.  Murdstone  had  mended  many  a  time. 
She  knew  it  meant  something  sacred  to  her  husband, 
but  never  asked  why  he  wore  that  precious  stone. 


CHAPTER  X. 

PREPARATIONS    FOR    CROSSING  THE   PLAINS. 

Dan's  recovery  was  very  slow  indeed;  just  as  Dr. 
Knight  had  predicted.  His  new  mother  watched  with 
him  day  and  night,  giving  herself  no  rest,  only  at  such 
intervals  as  the  boy  was  sleeping  peacefully.  The  next 
day,  as  the  doctor  was  questioning  Mrs.  Murdstone 
about  the  symptoms  of  the  boy's  condition,  he  discov 
ered  there  had  been  a  complete  change  since  the  hour 
that  Mr.  Murdstone  had  knelt  at  the  mother's  grave. 

The  doctor's  faith  in  the  power  of  drugs  had  been 
greatly  shaken  many  times  of  late,  and  his  faith  in 
prayer  was  increasing  as  the  years,  with  their  accumu 
lating  evidence,  had  brought  fact  after  fact  of  this 
kind  to  his  attention,  and  he  confessed  as  much  to  Mrs. 
Murdstone.  Dan's  fear,  trembling  and  nervous  rest 
lessness  had  all  disappeared,  but  he  was  compelled  to 
lie  there,  his  prostrate  vital  powers  at  a  very  low  ebb, 
for  weeks.  Who  can  count  the  result  of  that  one  hour's 
giving  way  to  brutal  anger,  and  cloaking  the  atrocity 
in  the  mild  term  of  " parental  authority? " 

No  sooner  were  the  alarming,  symptoms  of  the  boy 
somewhat  relieved,  than  it  was  noticed  that  Kate 
Murdstone  was  moping  in  a  listless,  tired  way,  with 
such  a  quiet,  spiritless,  inattentive  state  of  mind  that  it 
was  positively  painful  to  see  her.  She  never  recited  a 
lesson  in  school,nor  seemed  to  take  the  slightest  interest 
in  either  play  or  study  ;  her  hands  lay  idly  in  her  lap, 
or  dangled  heedlessly  at  her  side.  One  evening,  as  the 
children  were  running,  jumping  and  playing  pranks  as 
children  do  when  dismissed  from  school,  suddenly 
Kate  reeled,  stumbled,  and  would  have  fallen,  but  a 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  CROSSING  THE  PLAINS.      63 

strong  boy,  running  back,  saw  her  and  caught  her  in 
his  arms.  She  cried,  "  Oh,  I  am  blind."  Jean  rushed 
to  her  side,  saying :  "  Oh,  no,  it  is  the  hot  sun  that  has 
made  you  dizzy;  lean  on  me." 

Kate  never  spoke  again.     It  took  both  Jean  and  the 

strong  boy  to  carry  her  home.     The  next  week  they 

•  laid  her  beside  her  mother  in  the  church-yard.    .The 

pure  young  maiden,  the  fair  young  girl,  was  at  rest 

with  her  mother  in  heaven. 

Dan  was  slowly  recovering ;  all  the  fall  and  winter 
he  could  not  take  his  place  at  work,  only  to  do  light 
chores  about  the  house  and  grounds  with  his  mother. 
He  was  never  better  pleased  than  when  he  could  do 
something  to  lighten  her  labors.  She  was  more  than 
a  mother  to  him,  and  he  filled  the  aching  void  of  her 
heart  for  her  absent  sons,  so  they  were  all  in  all  to  each 
other. 

The  harvest  was  over,  the  corn  had  been  gathered, 
the  cattle  housed  for  the  winter,  the  sheep  and  hogs 
fattened  for  the  slaughter,  the  turkeys  penned  for 
Christmas,  the  spinning-wheels  had  been  humming  all 
the  fall  months,  the  heavy  skein  of  woollen  yarn  had 
been  spun  and  colored  into  rich  browns,  greens,  deep 
blues  and  pale  blues,  all  hung  in  the  great  loft  ready 
for  the  loom.  Two  hundred  yards  were  to  be  woven. 
Why  so  much  for  a  family  of  eleven?  There  were 
only  eleven,  now.  "Why!  were  there  to  be  no  more 
falls  with  spinning  wool  and  weaving  yarn  in  them? 
I  fear  not,  for  this  family.  No  more  years  of  full- 
garnered  sheaves  overflowing  with  plenty — not  here 
on  the  old  homestead. 

Oh,  yes,  more  years  in  plenty,  but  hardships,  strug 
gles  and  scattering  the  young  flock — the  old  story. 

The  old  house  had  been  sold.  The  family  remained 
until  the  next  fall,  but  commenced  early  to  have  the 
spinning  and  weaving  done  for  the  next  year.  Hence 
the  preparations  for  the  two  hundred  yards  of  cloth, 
which  must  be  cut,  fitted  and  made  into  garments. 


64  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  was  not  a  weaver.  All  the  weaving 
was  done  at  a  little  homespun  factory  just  struggling 
into  existence  at  that  time.  Much  of  the  spinning  was 
done  by  a  hired  girl,  who  was  paid  one  dollar  and  a 
half  a  week.  The  girl  was  neat,  tidy,  and  tired  every 
day  when  the  work  was  done;  but  she  earned  money, 
if  ever  so  little;  was  independent  and  happy,  and  her 
wants  were  few.  She  was  unlike  some  who  worked 
harder  and  got  no  pay;  who,  after  their  marriage,  were 
not  independent,  and  too  often  wretchedly  unhappy. 
But  such  was  life  in  the  Hoosier  state,  as  I  remember 
it,  forty  years  ago. 

The  neighbors  thought  the  Murdstone  family,  since 
they  had  united  with  the  Yankee  family  of  Ames,  had 
gone  daft.  "They  are  anything  but  clear-headed. 
Going  to  cross  the  plains  in  ox-wagons  to  the  Pacific 
coast!  Of  course,  the  Indians  will  kill  them  and  take 
the  wagons,  horses  and  cattle  before  they  get  half 
way  there.  If  the  old  fools  wanted  to  go  off  by  them 
selves,  and  be  killed  by  the  Indians,  it  would  be  all 
right,  but  to  take  all  those  helpless  little  children  that 
don't  even  know  what  it  means,  is  just  awful,  and  the 
authorities  ought  to  put  a  stop  to  the  idea." 

The  scheme  was  so  gigantic,  the  difficulties  so  ter 
rifying,  the  preparations  so  all-absorbing,  that  it  took 
nearly  the  whole  neighborhood,  busily  working  with 
might  and  main,  to  get  the  family  ready  at  the  end  of 
the  year,  for  the  journey  which  would  take  a  year  to 
accomplish,  even  if  it  were  successful. 

"  What  if  the  Indians  should  take  them  all  prisoners 
and  make  them  work  for  them  as  slaves  all  their 
lives,  and  the  journey  never  end  ?  Oh,  the  hor 
ror  ! " 

The  neighbors  sat  around  their  firesides  and  talked 
"Indians"  until  they  half  expected  the  savages  to  en 
ter  with  a  whoop  and  yell,  and,  tomahawk  in  air,  scalp 
them  all  in  their  peaceful  homes.  Then  they  would 
brace  up  at  a  corn-husking  and  say :  "  Oh,  nonsense, 


PREPARATIONS  FOR  CROSSING  THE  PLAINS.      65 

Murdstone  will  never  go,  DO  more  nor  I  shall;  they  are 
only  talkinV 

"Yes,  but  see  the  way  they  are  workin'  like  all  per- 
sessed,  the  spinning-wheels  just  a-buzzing,  and  the 
looms  a-whirring.  Old  Jake  Cobe  told  me  he  had 
seventy-five  yards  of  jeans  to  weave,  some  of  it  butter, 
nut  colored,  and  some  of  it  indigo  blue,  and  old  Mrs. 
Eogers  were  at  our  house  last  week,  she  were,  and  she 
sez  Belling' s  man,  what's  the  wheelwright  in  town, 
has  got  an  order  to  put  up  two  of  the  biggest  kivered 
ox-wagons  ever  he  seed  in  all  his  life;  and  they  are  to 
be  made  of  the  goldarndest  tough  hickory  they  kin  git 
in  the  hull  country — that  sand  wouldn't  scrape,  ner  the 
sun  warp,  ner  the  water  faze,  to  make  it  shrink  er 
shrivel.  You  see  there's  hundreds  an*  hundreds  o' 
miles  o'  nothing  but  sand  deserts,  and  then  there's 
nary  a  road  the  hull  way,  just  brush  and  trees  and 
sand  and  rivers  to  cross,  an'  savages  don't  make  no 
bridges  as  ever  I  hearn  on;  they  just  stay  on  one  side 
o'  the  river  while  the  water  is  high  and  wait  till  its 
low.  But  you  see,  them  Murdstones  is  a  goin  somers, 
God  only  knows  where;  they've  jest  got  to  push  right 
ahead,  cos'  if  they  don't  they'll  never  get  across  them 
biggest  mountains  in  the  hull  world,  just  afore  they  get 
to  that  there  awful  fine  valley,  that  I  'spose  beats  the 
land  o'  Canaan  that  Moses  traveled  forty  years  to  see, 
with  them  children  of  Israel,  and  then  only  sot  eyes  on 
it  and  died.  They  say  they  are  goin'  for  to  take  up 
land,  and  then  they  be  agoin'  to  live  and  build  up 
a  country  all  by  theirselves,  with  the  savages  just 
a-hootin'  and  yellin'  and  a-scalpin'  of  ?em  all  the  time. 
Oh,  yes,  Davie,  they  are  a-goin',  or  leastwise  they  be 
a-goin'  to  start,  'cos  I  never  hearn  o'  Murdstoue's  not  a 
doin'  what  he  said  he  wus." 

"  That  woman  that  Murdstone  married  is  a  mighty 
peert  kind  o'  woman,  and  as  good  as  wheat.  The  way 
she  sot  by  them  children  o'  his'n  while  they  was  sick 
with  the  fever  this  summer;  and  them  children  Bets 


66 


THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 


more  store  by  her  than  mine  does  by  me,  a  nnff  sight, 
aod  she  ses  she  can't  tell  no  difference  between  which 
is  her'n  and  which  is  his'n,  only  when  they're  sick,  or 
be  a-goin'  to  die,  then  uatur'  will  tug  away  at  her 
heart." 


CHAPTER  XI. 

COMMENCING  THE  JOURNEY. 

As  there  is  an  end  to  everything,  so  there  was  an 
end  to  the  preparations,  and  a  beginning  to  the  jour 
ney. 

On  the  morning  of  the  twentieth  of  September,  1847, 
the  ox-wagons,  with  their  great,  snowy  covers,  were 
standing  in  the  yard,  every  inch  of  space  packed  with 
flour,  bacon  and  beans,  dried  fruit,  bedding,  blankets, 
clothing  and  general  camping  outfit  —  everything  in 
order.  The  wagons  had  been  built  for  the  trip;  ev 
ery  convenience  that  could  be  thought  of  had  been 
added  for  the  comfort  of  the  family.  All  the  friends  of 
the  family,  who  felt  the  parting  most  keenly,  had  said 
their  good-byes  a  week  before — the  good-byes  never 
to  be  repeated.  The  curiosity  of  the  passing  friend  and 
neighbor  had  been  satisfied.  Nurse  Scott,  who  was 
going  as  far  as  the  village  with  the  family,  was  seated 
with  all  the  little  Murdstones  in  her  ample  lap,  in  the 
spacious  carriage  with  its  proud  steeds  impatient  to  be 
gone.  If  they  could  have  known  the  weary  miles  they 
had  to  travel,  would  they,  like  many  a  poor  mortal, 
have  been  so  eager  for  the  start  ? 

The  carriage  moved  leisurely  down  the  lane,  the  dull- 
eyed  oxen  pulled  slowly  out,  and  the  long  journey  was 
begun.  The  neighbors  were  somewhat  saddened  by 
this  dropping  out  of  a- whole  family  from  their  midst, 
but  they  flung  aside  their  stolid  tears,  and  were  soon 
dispersed,  feeling  half  glad  the  journey  was  not  theirs, 
as  each  took  up  his  or  her  burden  of  life,  lightened  by 
the  contrast  of  their  own  peaceful  homes,  and  their 
paying  avocations,  to  a  long  journey  over  an  unknown 
region,  with  no  home,  no  employment,  no  civilization 


68  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

but  one  to  be  hewed  out  of  the  eternal  nothingness  of 
a  new  world. 

There  were  five  yoke  of  oxen  to  each  wagon.  Mike 
Flannigan  drove  one  of  the  slow-footed  ox-teams  haul 
ing  the  ponderous  load,  with  its  creaking  wheels  slowly 
turning  on  their  great  iron  axles,  making  a  heavy  doubt 
spring  up  in  the  mind  of  any  one  who  knew  how  far 
those  wheels  were  destined  to  roll,  whether,  at  that 
pace,  they  would  ever  reach  their  destined  goal  or 
not.  Mike's  reason  for  braving  the  desperate  foe,  and 
leaving  civilization  behind  him,  was  that  he  wanted 
more  room  to  fling  about  his  brogue,  for  "Begorra," 
said  he,  "  that's  all  I  have  left  me  since  Pete  Mulligan 
married  the  widdy  Daley."  Any  man  w*ho  has  never 
attempted  to  drive  five  yoke  of  oxen  will  have  no  idea 
of  the  undertaking,  especially  until  these  dull-brained 
animals  get  settled  into  the  routine  business  of  tramp, 
tramping,  with  the  heavy,  groaning  load  creeping  after. 
There  are  always  shirks  in  an  ox-team,  just  as  there  are 
in  the  human  bee-hive,  and  if  the  driver  was  not  on 
the  alert,  two  or  three  oxen  would  be  left  to  pull  the 
load;  and  with  a  journey  like  that,  it  would  work  dis 
aster,  for  the  cattle  that  pulled  the  load  would  soon  be 
disabled,  and  as  there  were  no  recruiting  hospitals  on 
the  route,  every  man  and  beast  must  be  able  to  move  on. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  told  her  friends  that  with  such  a 
journey  before  her,  there  was  no  time  for  tears,  and 
bade  them  all  a  cheerful  good-by,  stepping  into  the 
carriage;  and  poor,  old  nurse  Scott's  lap  was  left  empty 
of  the  little  Murdstones,  and  her  heart  quite  disconso 
late  as  she  said  they  didn't  care  for  her  any  longer. 

The  teams  had  about  six  miles  to  travel  before  reach 
ing  the  village  where  Mrs.  Murdstone  had  formerly 
lived,  and  from  which  town  she  was  married  two  years 
before,  and  where  Thomas  and  Ben  Ames  had  been  at 
work  until  now.  The  whole  town  turned  out  en  masse, 
as  they  passed  through  the  principal  street.  The 
horses  were  impatient,  champing  their  bits,  and  could 
scarely  be  kept  quiet  during  the  hour  while  the  hand 
shaking  went  on,  but  the  patient  cattle  stood  still  chew- 


COMMENCING  THE  JOURNEY.  69 

ing  their  cuds,  and  some  of  them  actually  lay  down  in 
their  yokes  to  rest,  to  the  great  amusement  of  the  by 
standers,  with  which  the  streets  were  thronged  on  either 
side.  Many  citizens  expressed  a  desire  to  join  the 
party,  and  wishing  the  Murdstones  every  success  on 
their  journey,  hoping  to  hear  a  favorable  report,  de 
clared  that  they  would  join  them  in  the  course  of  two 
or  three  years.  Dr.  Knight  said  it  would  not  surprise 
him  if  half  the  town  followed  suit. 

As  everybody  knows,  it  was  only  the  next  June,  1848, 
that  the  great  gold  discovery  was  made  at  Butter's  mill, 
California,  and  many  a  gawking  boy  who  stood  looking 
in  open-mouthed  wonder  that  afternoon  at  the  Murd- 
stone  outfit,  found  himself  in  California  before  three 
years  had  passed,  ransacking  the  mountains  and  hill 
sides,  and  turning  the  rivers  upside  down  to  get  their 
gold,  and  some  found  the  yellow  metal  in  great  abun 
dance.  But  alas!  too  many  found  shattered  lives  and 
broken  fortunes,  and  some  found  early  graves,  while 
others  returned  to  the  old  civilization  and  settled  down 
to  their  former  avocations,  their  minds  stored  with 
wonderful  knowledge  of  the  great  hegira  to  the  Golden 
West. 

That  night,  the  Murdstones,  one  and  all,  declared  they 
were  glad  to  be  in  a  strange  country  where  no  one  could 
say  good-by.  The  romance  of  their  first  camp-fire  was 
something  to  be  enjoyed;  there  they  were  under  the 
great  spreading  oaks,  just  three  miles  from  the  village, 
the  fire  lighting  up  the  grounds;  the  rustic  table,  set 
with  a  clean,  white,  homespun  flax  table-cloth;  new, 
shining  tin  plates  and  tin  cups  for  tea;  the  snowy  bread 
and  cakes,  jellies,  cold  chicken,  cold  ham,  pickles  — 
was  not  that  a  picnic,  a  peaceful,  restful  time  after  the 
day's  events  ?  The  children  were  tired  of  being  cooped 
up  all  day  in  the  carriage.  The  noise,  the  fun,  the 
frolic  around  that  old  oak  tree  was  good  enough  for 
them;  the  night  was  clear,  with  the  stars  shining  over 
head  ;  the  fire-light,  with  its  fitful  glare,  threw  a  glamour 
about  the  whole  scene  that  gave  to  the  campers  prom- 


70  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

ise  that  the  whole  trip  was  to  be  one  of  pleasure. 

The  Murdstone  family  was  stowed  away  in  the  two 
wagons,  which,  to  their  great  surprise  were  almost  as 
comfortable  as  two  little  bed-rooms,  with  many  conve 
niences  for  toilet  arrangements  hid  away  in  wall 
pockets  fashioned  in  the  wagon  covers.  The  boys  and 
hired  men  slept  in  a  tent  on  the  "ground  floor"  they 
said,  declaring  they  had  daisies  and  buttercups  for 
carpets;  but  all  they  had  to  show  for  daisy  carpets  next 
morning,  was  one  little,  belated  dandelion  that  had  for 
gotten  to  bloom  until  all  his  neighbors  had  blown  away 
in  the  soft  down  that  the  dandelion,  in  its  old  age, 
gives  to  the  wind. 

It  is  needless  to  say  that  these  campers,  one  and  all, 
slept  soundly;  no  crying  children  disturbed  the  mid 
night  air,  no  standing  guard  all  night  for  fear  of  In 
dians.  These  people  were  in  Illinois,  six  miles  from 
the  Indiana  line;  they  had  to  traverse  the  two  states  of 
Illinois  and  Missouri  before  reaching  the  Missouri 
river,  the  starting-point,  as  it  was  then  called,  for  the 
emigrants  who  were  crossing  the  great  plains. 

The  Murdstones  started  on  the  journey  in  the  fall, 
aud  wintered  in  the  city  of  St.  Joseph,  on  the  banks  of 
the  Missouri  river,  as  many  other  emigrants  did  who 
started  from  the  interior  of  the  Western  States  to  cross 
the  plains.  There  were  no  railroads  in  those  days,  and 
it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  make  the  journey  in 
the  early  spring,  as  the  ice,  snow  and  slush  made  the 
roads  impassable  for  heavy  loads  to  join  the  company 
that  was  formed  at  this  last  point  of  civilization,  to 
travel  together  in  hundreds  for  mutual  aid  and  protec 
tion  against  the  savages  through  whose  country  they 
had  to  pass.  It  was  not  deemed  safe  to  travel  with 
less  than  one  hundred  and  fifty  armed  men  after  leav 
ing  the  Missouri  river.  Kansas  and  Nebraska  were  an 
uninhabited  wilderness,  over  which  roamed  the  buffalo 
and  Sioux  Indians. 

Dear,  old  Doctor  Knight  had  tried  to  reach  the 
Murdstone  camp  early,  and  take  the  evening  meal  with 


COMMENCING  THE  JOURNEY.  71 

the  family,  in  the  open  air,  under  the  grand  old  oak 
tree  that  had  stood  the  storms  of  a  hundred  years,  and 
spread  out  its  smiling  branches  to  as  many  summers. 

"Doctor  Knight,  I've  been  in  attendance  with  you, 
many  and  many  a  time.  You  can't  hurry  up  a  case  of 
this  kind.  What's  the  use  fussing  ?  I  never  saw  you  so 
anxious  to  get  away,"  said  the  nurse,  Mrs.  Chinks. 

"No,  I  see,"  said  the  old  doctor;  "and  since  I  am 
compelled  to  wait,  Mrs.  Chinks,  give  me  a  pen  and  ink 
and  I  will  compose  a  letter  which  may  compose  me. 
A  doctor's  life  is  but  a  slave's  at  best."' 

Mrs.  Chinks,  laying  the  writing  paper  before  the 
M.  D.,  said: 

"It's  a  lot  of  people  you're  always  giving  orders  to, 
and  keeping  'em  jumping  to  do  your  dictation,  and  a 
king  has  seldom  lived  who  has  more  people  eager  to  do 
his  slightest  bidding." 

"  Well,  well,  Mrs.  Chinks,  I  wish  there  was  not  any 
worse  slavery  in  the  whole  world.  I  am  quite  content 
with  myself  now,  thanks  to  you,"  and  with  his  ear 
listening  every  moment,  for  a  call  from  the  nursery,  he 
took  up  his  pen  and  wrote  rapidly : 

"At  CARGASWALAGENS,  Midnight. 

"Dear  Friends:  I  am  detained.  I  don't  blame  a  child 
for  not  hurrying  to  be  born  to  wear  a  name  like  that. 
It  doesn't  sound  so  awful  as  it  seems  when  written.  I 
was  with  you,  in  spirit,  around  the  old  oak  tree  last 
night.  It  is  glorious  to  have  the  seclusion  of  one's  own 
family.  You  must  have  enjoyed  it  to  a  degree,  and 
were  really  better  off  without  me;  but  I  am  so  selfish, 
I  wanted  to  have  one  more  last  time.  You  know  we 
have  had  several  last  good-byes.  Your  start  is  made, 
and  a  very  good  one  too,  I  think.  You  will  have  a 
joyous  time  right  through  this  fall.  The  cattle  travel 
so  slowly  that  you  cannot  possibly  be  wearied  with 
your  six  weeks'  trip. 

"The  big  family  carriage,  with  its  fine  span  of  brood 
mares,  drawing  its  precious  freight,  looked  proud  and 
defiant  of  failure.  You  are  splendidly  equipped,  dear 


72  THE)    HEROINE    OP  '4£ 

friends,  for  the  journey.  I  did  not  think  when  you 
first  talked  of  going,  'that  such  a  magnificent  outfit 
could  be  got  together  in  the  whole  county.  Why,  it 
will  inspire  respect  and  admiration  in  the  breast  of 
every  savage  nation  through  whose  country  you  pass. 
They  will  not  harm  a  hair  of  your  heads.  They  will 
be  glad  to  see  you,  and  learn  some  of  your  methods  of 
life.  They  will  not  adopt  them  —  civilization  is  not  so 
easily  reached  —  but  the  savages  will  be  pleased  and  en 
tertained,  and  will  make  no  war  upon  you  since  you  are 
only  peacefully  passing  over  their  country.  Do  not  al 
low  the  young  men  of  your  company  to  disturb  their 
game  too  much ;  keep  your  guns  and  ammunition  out  of 
sight,  but  whe*e  they  can  be  reached  at  a  moment's 
warning. 

"  I  shall  miss  you,  but  I  am  proud  to  have  you  there 
in  that  new  world.  I  know  your  lives  will  be  so  much 
grander  and  broader  than  they  could  ever  have  been 
here.  Why,  you  are  establishing  a  new  civilization. 
You  will  be  so  remote  from  other  centers  that  it  will  be 
slow  to  build  up  a  new  state;  but  so  much  the  more 
will  your  moral  heroism  be  felt.  Like  primitive  man, 
God's  first  temple,  the  trees,  will  be  your  houses  of 
worship.  But  how  soon  will  you  build  houses,  churches 
and  schools,  aud  plant  orchards.  For  the  last  two 
years  I  have  been  gathering  choice  varieties  of  fruits, 
flowers  and  garden  seeds  for  you,  and  when  they  are 
all  growing  and  blooming  in  splendor,  then  you  will 
think  of  me.  I  know  how  readily  you  will  lend  a  help 
ing  hand  to  the  new  world  you  are  about  to  bless  with 
your  noble,  strong  lives. 

"And  the  dear  children  —  is  there  any  four-walled 
country  school-house  in  all  Christendom  where  they 
could  learn  as  much  as  they  will  next  summer,  in  the 
great  world  from  which  they  will  gather  object-lessons 
as  they  pass  on  and  on  ?  Your  girls  will  grace  fairest 
homes,  and  your  boys  will  sit  in  the  legislative  halls  of 
a  new  state,  and  I  shall  probably  read  all  this  in  the 
letters  you  send  back,  and  how  soon  it  will  all  come  to 
pass,  dear  friends,  and  we  shall  b@  done  with  it  all, 


COMMENCING    THE   JOURNEY. 


73 


and  like  Jacob  of  old,  be  gathered  to  our  fathers; 
and  the  old  world  where  we  have  loved,  lived  and  died, 
wilLmove  on  just  the  same  without  us.  I  am  called. 
Gooa-by."  DB.  KNIGHT. 


CHAPTER  XII 

CROSSING  THE   PLAINS. 

Next  morning,  the  family  were  at  breakfast;  the  air 
being  cooler,  the  children  would  have  been  uncomfort 
able  but  for  this  canvas  house  and  the  cooking-stove 
fire,  with  its  beefsteak  frying  as  homelike  as  you 
please,  and  the  most  fragrant"  coffee,  with  cream  Mr. 
Murdstone  had  bought  of  a  farmer  who  had  allowed 
him  the  use  of  his  barn-yard  for  the  cattle,  and  stable- 
room  for  the  horses,  charging  him  but  a  trifling  sum. 
There  was,  however,  many  another  farmer  on  the  route 
that  took  advantage  of  the  situation,  and  charged  him 
most  exorbitant  prices  for  the  same  accommodations. 
And  while  they  were  thus  cosily  and  somewhat  hastily 
swallowing  the  early  meal,  little  Alfred,  on  his  mother's 
knee,  espied  the  letter  that  Dr.  Knight  had  pinned  on 
the  tent  door,  where  he  had  written  in  pencil,  "  Be 
ware  of  midnight  prowlers.  Baby  boy — mother  doing 
well..  2:10  A.  M.  DR.  KNIGHT  AND  OLD  BADGER." 

Mrs.  Murdstone  read  the  foregoing  letter,  and 
Thomas  Ames,  as  he  lifted  the  tin  cup  of  coffee  to  the 
dawning  down  of  his  upper  lip,  exclaimed:  "I  will  be 
the  legislator!"  and  Jean  said,  "Bead  that  again, 
mother.  "What  kind  of  a  home  is  it  I'm  to  grace?" 

"  The  Murdstones,  as  they  wended  their  slow  way 
along,  could  not  have  had  a  pleasanter  journey.  The 
road  was  good  most  of  the  way,  and  those  glorious, 
bright  days  of  autumn  weather  were  just  perfect  in 
that  mighty  valley  of  the  Mississippi.  There  were 
hundreds  of  miles  of  dead  level, — not  a  ripple  nor  rise 
of  ground, — one  mighty  sweep  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach  in  every  way.  The  horizon  sets  down  flat  on  the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS.  75 

level  plain.  This  vastness  is  sublime.  It  is  awe-in 
spiring.  It  takes  away  your  power  to  dwell  upon  little 
things  like  self.  You  wonder  if  this  is  eternity  and 
there  is  no  end,  as  day  after  day  you  go  on  and  on, 
and  meet  only  with  endless  expanse? 

The  people  living  along  the  route  complained  of  be 
ing  oppressed  by  this  immensity  of  space,  where  there 
was  nothing  for  the  eye  to  rest  upon,  and  they  were 
glad  when  night  shut  in  the  earth  with  darkness;  and 
yet,  in  the  clear,  bright  moonlight,  it  was  something 
weird  and  almost  terrorizing  to  look  upon.  Mountain 
scenery  is  always  soothing  to  the  spirit  of  man.  There 
are  such  sheltering  nooks,  such  sublimity,  such  pure 
air,  and  yet,  with  all,  such  a  protecting  feeling.  You 
flee  to  the  mountains  for  safety  or  shelter;  but  where 
would  you  find  shelter  here  if  a  storm  should  come,  a 
wind  drive  you  before  it,  or,  as  often  did  happen  in 
those  days,  a  devastating  fire  sweep  over  those 
prairies?  No  earthly  thing  could  save  you. 

Our  travelers  had  spent  a  busy  winter  in  the  city  of 
St.  Joseph,  making  the  last  preparations — the  finishing 
touches,  as  it  were — for  the  long  journey  across  the 
plains.  This  was  the  last  point  of  civilization  through 
which  they  had  to  pass.  Any  supplies  that  were  not 
laid  in  at  this  place  would  have  to  be  done  without;  so 
the  great  throng  that  had  spent  the  winter  in  that  city 
had  to  have  their  wits  about  them,  and  decide  what 
would  be  absolutely  necessary,  and  omit  what  was  not 
positively  needed.  A  great  many  people  took  things 
they  did  not  need,  and  found,  after  hauling  them  a  few 
hundred  miles,  that  it  was  necessary  to  throw  them 
away  to  lighten  their  loads.  The  special  family  with 
which  the  reader  is  acquainted,  were  pretty  level 
headed,  and  did  not  make  these  mistakes.  The  won- 
derfulness  of  this  lively  little  city  of  St.  Josephs  was 
that  it  sat  on  the  rim  of  the  world.  You  crossed  the 
Missouri  river  and  were  out  of  the  world  and  into  a 
wilderness.  It  was  wonderful,  too,  to  stand  on  the 
banks  of  the  river,  and  watch  the  palatial  steamers  as 


76  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

they  plowed  through  the  muddy  water.  How  quickly 
the  splash  and  whir  and  foam  that  they  left  in  their 
track  was  smoothed  away  by  the  moving  waters,  and 
its  bosom  left  unruffled  by  the  slightest  hint  of  any  dis 
turbance. 

There  are  natures  like  this :  Jean  Ames  was  not  un 
like  the  great  river  in  her  calmness.  Would  the  throes 
of  grief  disturb  her  breast,  and  the  current  of  her  life 
quickly  close  over  it  all,  and  smoothly  glide  on  ?  We 
shall  see.  But  first  we  must  get  our  heroine,  together 
with  the  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  her  fellow-travel 
ers,  "  the  plains  across."  It  would  req,uire  the  pen  of 
a  Dickens  to  describe  the  bustle  and  confusion ;  the 
noise,  hurry  and  jostling;  getting  across  the  river,  tak 
ing  their  places  along  the  line,  waiting  to  be  numbered 
and  put  into  position.  There  were  about  six  hundred 
wagons  that  crossed  the  river  in  the  first  days  of  April, 
1848.  Each  wagon  was  supposed  to  carry  three  adult 
people,  with  any  number  of  children  thrown  in.  Now 
this  immense  concourse  of  people  had  to  be  divided 
into  companies,  the  first  company  to  start  out  two  days 
in  advance,  the  next  following  in  order,  and  so  on. 
These  companies  consisted  of  one  hundred  and  fifty 
wagons  each.  It  happened  that  Mr.  Murdstone  was 
chosen  as  the  man  to  lead  the  van,  and  as  the  horses 
walked  faster  than  the  cattle,  they  were  allowed  to  go 
ahead.  The  gallant  steeds  looked  defiant  of  failure, 
sure  enough,  though  everybody  was  prognosticating 
their  inability  to  stand  the  journey. 

Captain  Wambaugh,  riding  back  and  forth  along  the 
line  of  long  teams,  seemed  proud  as  any  general  that 
ever  directed  a  battle  or  led  soldiers  to  victory.  He 
was  a  French-Canadian,  and  understood  the  Indian 
character  thoroughly.  He  was  a  well-knit,  compact 
man  of  medium  stature;  a  broad  bronzed  face  lit  up 
with  clear,  blue  eyes,  that  meant  to  be  obeyed  without 
any  palaver,  and  he  was  obeyed  from  first  to  last  with 
out  anyone's  feeling  that  he  was  under  surveillance. 
These  companies  were  to  travel  so  as  to  be  within 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS.  77 

hailing  distance  of  each  other;  should  a  company  be 
attacked  by  Indians,  either  at  the  front  or  rear;  they 
could  fall  back  or  advance,  as  the  case  required.  There 
were  horsemen  riding  back  and  forth,  so  that  each 
company  had  an  account  of  the  other's  progress  nearly 
every  day.  There  were  some  rules  to  be  observed, 
and  one  of  them  was,  that  the  family  that  led  the  train 
one  morning  was  to  fall  back  to  the  rear  the  next. 
The  teams  of  each  family  were  allowed  to  remain  to 
gether. 

There  were  only  two  family  carriages  in  the  train — 
the  Murdetones'  and  that  of  Dr.  Martin's  family.  These 
were  exempt  from  the  rule  of  going  to  the  rear,  and 
were  allowed  to  take  the  lead  the  whole  journey 
through.  Every  night,  when  driving  into  camp,  the 
wagons  were  placed  in  a  circle  so  that  they  formed  a 
compact  corral,  and  as  soon  as  the  cattle  were  done  feed 
ing  they  were  driven  into  this  corral.  A  certain  num 
ber  of  men  were  stationed  at  equal  distances  around  the 
corral,  to  stand  guard  against  the  Indians  until  mid 
night,  when  they  were  relieved  by  the  morning  guards 
men.  The  hours  after  midnight  were  considered  the 
most  dangerous,  as  it  is  the  Indian's  character  to  creep 
up  upon  their  foe  just  before  daylight.  Hence  these 
were  picked  and  tried  men.  Captain  Wambaugh 
maintained  a  general  supervision  over  all  the  com 
panies,  but  a  special  one  over  the  first  company  that 
led  the  van  that  year.  He  was  chosen  to  this  high 
trust  because  he  had  crossed  the  plains  once  before, 
and  returned  alone,  braving  every  danger  that  his 
alertness  could  not  dodge,  which  made  him  a  hero 
with  all  the  companies.  Men  were  glad  to  trust  some 
one  who  had  had  experience  over  these  rough  marches. 
It  took  stout  hearts  and  strong  hands  to  bid  good-by 
to  civilization,  and  move  on  with  slow  and  steady 
tread  to  the  goal  of  their  destination — the  sunset  land 
of  the  Pacific  ocean.  Mothers  folded  their  little  chil 
dren  to  their  breasts  and  asked  that  God,  who  led 
Moaes  through  the  wilderness  to  the  promised  land, 


78  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

would  care  for  their  little  ones.  "  Those  were  times 
that  tried  men's  souls."  There  were  roads  to  make, 
and  bridges  to  build;  there  were  trees  to  fell  to  make 
way  through  mountain  gorges;  there  were  swollen 
rivers  to  cross,  made  so  by  the  melting  snows,  with 
only  wagon-beds  calked  tight  for  ferry-boats;  there 
were  midnight  vigils  to  keep,  standing  guard  for  Indians 
to  shoot  you  if  they  chose;  there  were  ravenous 
wolves,  whose  faintest  howl  would  send  the  soul 
of  a  coward  shivering  to  his  boots.  There  were 
great  bands  of  wild  buffaloes,  with  frightened  tread, 
thundering  over  the  plains,  making  the  earth  tremble 
with  their  onward  bounds.  Horsemen  must  meet  these 
frantic  beasts,  and  turn  them  from  their  course,  or  they 
would  sweep  everything  to  destruction  in  their  terrified 
way.  There  were  hundreds  of  them,  packed  so  closely 
together  that  each  one  must  make  his  bound  with  pre 
cision  or  his  fellow  would  trample  him  to  death.  Their 
fiery  black  eyes  would  look  as  if  bursting  from  their 
sockets  ;  their  short  horns  almost  bent  to  the  earth ; 
their  great  flowing  manes  glistening  in  the  sun-light. 
If  they  were  not  warded  off,  they  would  crash  right 
through  the  train,  killing  everything  within  their 
sweep.  They  were  more  to  be  dreaded  than  an  Indian 
massacre. 

There  were  mountain  sides  around  which  to  clamber, 
where  it  was  impossible  to  cut  the  solid  rock  and  make 
a  grade.  Strong  men  would  walk  beside  the  wagons, 
holding  them  from  falling  off  and  tumbling  down 
hundreds  of  feet  into  a  torrent  below.  There  were 
some  mountains  to  climb  so  steep  that  teams  had  to  be 
doubled  to  haul  up  one  wagon.  Then  there  were 
mountain  sides  to  descend,  when  the  cattle  were  taken 
away  from  the  wagons,  the  tongue  attached  to  the 
wagon,  and  large  trees,  with  heavy  tops,  were  cut 
down  and  fastened  to  the  back  for  a  weight  to  prevent 
their  falling  end  over  end,  the  places  were  so  steep. 
There  were  other  places  over  precipices  where  the 
wagons  were  let  down  with  ropes.  Then  came  the 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS. 


79 


long  marches  over  the  burning  sands,  without  water 
except  that  carried  in  casks,  and  sometimes  the  men, 
as  well  as  the  cattle,  would  give  out  on  the  long  drives 
over  alkali  deserts.  And  here,  as  always,  since  the 
world  began,  the  women  came  to  the  rescue  when  the 
men  failed.  There  was  one  long  march  of  three  days 
that  had  to  be  driven  over  at -night,  as  the  heat  of  the 
sun  was  too  intense  in  the  day-time. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CROSSING  THE  PLAINS. 

The  last  night  of  this  terrible  tramp  over  the  des 
ert  stretch  Mr.  Murdstone  said  to  Jean:  "There  is 
no  one  to  take  the  place  to  drive  this  carriage  but  you. 
There  are  so  many  men  sick,  and  one  poor  fellow  I  fear 
will  die  before  morning.  The  horses  will  keep  the 
road.  They  will  obey  your  lightest  touch.  All  you 
have  to  do  is  to  keep  a  tight  rein  when  you  go  down 
the  steep  places."  The  brave  girl  did  hold  a  tight  rein 
down  the  steep  places,  trusting  in  God  and  the  horses, 
and  was  wearied  and  worn  with  the  marching  when 
daylight  dawned  on  the  sand  desert,  and  they  were  in 
sight  of  the  winding  river  that  lay  a  mile  and  a  half 
below.  The  moment  the  almost  famished  cattle  gained 
sight  of  the  water  they  were  unmanageable,  and  had  to 
be  unhitched  from  the  wagons.  T.hey  dashed  pell-mell 
into  the  stream,  which  being  shallow  water  saved  them 
from  drowning.  There  was  a  camp  struck  on  the  banks 
of  Green  river,  and  several  days  spent  in  recruiting 
the  men  and  beasts  from  their  never-to-be-forgotten  all- 
night  march. 

The  reader  must  not  think  that  the  whole  journey 
was  made  up  of  such  hardships  as  we  have  just  de 
scribed.  There  were  weeks  and  weeks  of  very  com 
fortable  traveling,  without  anything  occurring  to  disturb 
the  even  tenor  of  their  way.  There  were  miles  and 
miles  over  the  most  beautiful  undulating  plains, 
covered  with  waving  grass,  and  studded  with  gorgeous 
wild-flowers;  over  this  delightful  country  they  went 
creeping  along  at  a  very  snail's  pace.  The  cattle  could 
not  be  made  to  travel  more  than  ten  or  twelve  miles  a 
day,  at  the  farthest,  which  gave  the  company  ample 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS.  81 

time  to  enjoy  the  grand  sights  along  the  route.  Away 
to  the  right  and  left  there  were  snowy  peaks  crowning 
lofty  mountain  ranges,  whose  glowing  tints  in  the  warm 
afternoon  sunlight  were  lovely  to  look  upon;  but 
resplendent,  bathed  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun,  mak 
ing  the  whole  camp  peacefully  contented  after  the 
day's  journey  was  ended;  the  cattle  feeding  leisurely  on 
the  vast  plain;  the  camp-fires  dying  out;  the  evening 
meal  over;  men  and  women  contested,  happy  and  hope 
ful;  children  making  the  wild  earth  ring  with  their  joy 
ous  merriment;  young  men  and  maidens  acknowledging 
by  their  shy  looks  that  "  love  rules  the  court,  the  camp, 
the  grove  " —  all  these,  as  they  sat  by  the  camp's  dying 
embers,  or  wandered  by  the  running  stream's  low  banks, 
felt  that  the  God  who  hewed  out  the  mountains,  set 
their  snowy  boundaries,  sent  the  rivers  singing  through 
the  valleys,  and  hung  the  sun,  moon  and  stars  over  all, 
would  shelter  His  children  even  in  the  wilderness,  and 
this  thought  brought  peace  and  rest  and  renewed 
strength,  and  thus  they  journeyed  on  and  on,  meeting 
new  trials  and  new  pleasures  daily. 

Hunting  parties  were  often  out  by  the  dawn's  early 
light,  scouring  the  valley,  the  hill-top  or  mountain, 
just  as  it  happened.  Thus  the  company  were  rarely 
without  the  choicest  game,  elk,  deer,  mountain  sheep; 
and  the  delicious  antelope  and  buffalo,  I  fear,  wore 
killed  too  often,  just  for  the  mere  sport,  the  men  some 
times  bringing  in  only  the  tongues,  to  show  how  many 
they  had  slaughtered  of  these  fine  animals,  these  mon- 
archs  of  the  plain. 

Captain  Wambaugh  warned  the  company  that  they 
might  get  into  difficulty  with  the  Indians,  if  this  wanton 
killing  of  the  game  was  not  stopped.  On  account  of 
this,  the  whole  train  was  compelled  to  halt  one  fine 
morning  in  June,  and  hold  a  pow-wow  with  the  Sioux 
tribe  of  Indians.  Some  of  the  chiefs  rode  into  camp 
and  informed  Captain  Wambaugh  that  their  people, 
who  were  just^ starting  on  a  buffalo  hunt  to  the  south, 
would  wait  upon  the  company  and  receive  what  presents 
6 


82  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

they  had  to  offer  for  allowing  the  cattle  to  eat  and 
tramp  the  grass;  also  for  the  game  that  the  company 
were  killing;  a  very  honorable  and  praiseworthy 
proposition,  and  surely  a  company  of  the  great  Ameri 
can  nation  were  not  marauders,  nor  beggars;  and  so 
the  captain  said  that  the  quicker  the  debt  was  paid,  and 
with  the  greater  show  of  generosity,  the  safer  it  would 
be  for  the  scalps  of  the  whole  company;  and  the  best 
policy  for  their  pockets,  as  this  tribe  of  well-dressed, 
well-fed  and  well-bred  Indians,  as  Indians  go,  would 
not  be  outdone  in  generosity  by  the  pale-faces,  and  the 
Indians,  to  make  a  display  of  their  wealth,  would  pre 
sent  them  with  buffalo  robes  and  dressed  deer-skins, 
that  might  exceed  in  real  value  all  the  presents  the  In 
dians  received  from  the  company. 

What  the  Indians  most  wanted  was  guns  and  ammuni 
tion,  but  that  request  could  not  be  acceded  to  by  the 
company.  They  would  receive  blankets,  coffee,  sugar, 
flour,  tobacco.  It  was,  therefore,  arranged  between 
Captain  Wambaugh,  and  some  of  the  lieutenants  of  the 
company,  and  the  Indian  chiefs,  that  the  company 
should  meet  the  Indians  the  next  day,  hold  the  pow 
wow,  and  exchange  the  presents.  Some  of  the  horse 
men  of  the  company  had  ridden  to  the  camp  of  the 
Indians,  and  finding  that  the  Indian  women  and  chil 
dren  were  there,  reported  there  was  no  danger,  as  In 
dians  never  go  to  war  with  their  women  and  chil 
dren. 

Next  day,  everything  being  in  readiness,  the  compa 
ny  drawn  up  in  line,  the  wagons  arranged  to  make  as 
good  a  display  as  possible,  the  pale-faces  with  their 
best  appearance  stood  in  line,  men  shoulder  to  shoul 
der,  their  wives  and  children  just  back  of  them.  The 
Indians  were  also  arranged  in  the  same  order.  There 
were  three  thousand  of  these  Indians,  who,  if  they  had 
chosen,  could  have  wiped  the  company  of  whites  off  the 
face  of  the  earth  in  a  moment,  but  they  said  they 
knew  that  the  pale-faced  nation  was  like  the  sand  of  the 
river  bank,  and  to  destroy  this  company  would  be  to 
invite  their  own  destruction;  that  they  were  friendly. 


CROSSING    THE   PLAINS.  83 

The  pipe  of  peace  was  then  passed  from  the  Indian  to 
the  pale-face,  back  and  forth  along  the  line. 

This  ceremony  ended,  they  all  sat  down  upon  the 
grass.  Then  the  presents  were  brought  and  the  ex 
changes  made,  and  to  the  great  relief  of  the  company, 
they  were  allowed  to  move  on  to  camp;  and  were  glad 
to  learn  that  they  would  meet  no  more  Indians  on  the 
route  until  they  had  crossed  the  Rocky  Mountains,  as 
all  their  tribe  had  gone  or  were  going  south  to  lay  in 
supplies  for  winter. 

This  tribe  of  Indians  were  stalwart  men,  straight  as 
arrows;  all  dressed  in  their  holiday  attire  of  white 
buckskin,  with  long  fringes,  and  deep-beaded  embroi 
dery  wrought  in  a  variety  of  colors  and  designs.  The 
women  were  round  and  plump,  some  with  oval  faces 
and  bright,  sparkling  eyes  that  were  beautiful  indeed. 
Their  children  were  strong-limbed,  fleet  of  foot  and 
healthy  as  deer,  and  in  point  of  physique  would  put  to 
shame  our  proudest  civilization. 

Their  children,  under  ten  years  of  age,  both  boys 
and  girls,  wore  no  clothing,  buckskin  or  any  other  kind 
of  covering,  but  the  skin  that  grew  upon  their  bodies. 
There  was  not  a  sign  of  deformity  or  feebleness  of 
mind  or  body.  I  fear  not  so  much  could  have  been 
said  of  the  children  of  the  company,  who  were  more  or 
less  comfortably  clad,  but  if  they  could  have  stood  out, 
naked  before  scrutinizing  eyes,  as  the  little  savages  did, 
there  would  have  been  many  a  sunken  chest,  humped 
back  and  crooked  limb,  and  traces  of  tears  would  have 
been  found  upon  their  countenances,  .As  childhood 
should  not  be  the  weeping  age,  it  would  have  looked 
bad  for  our  civilization  as  we  stood  under  the  clear  sky 
of  that  bright  June  day.  A  wild  savage  was  never 
known  to  cut  a  stick  and  deliberately  whip  a  child, 
hence  they  grow  up  without  fear  and  without  disease. 
Horned  cattle  never  hook,  nor  kick  nor  hoof  their 
young.  The  bible  saying,  "  Spoil  the  rod  and  spare  the 
child,"  if  acted  upon,  would  be  the  greatest  boon  that 
could  be  conferred  upon  humanity. 

One  of  the  leading  savages,  among  the  mighty  chiefs 


84  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

at  the  pow-wow,  criticised  the  code  of  ethics  of  the 
company.  The  white  children  standing  alongside  their 
parents,  peeped  through  the  ranks  across  at  the  red 
skins  who  were  standing  about  three  rods  away.  The 
old  chief's  reprimand  for  this  act  of  discourtesy  was 
the  chagrin  of  the  proud  American  parent  for  many  a 
day.  After  this  grand  pow-wow  was  over,  the  company 
passed  a  few  straggling  bands  of  Indians.  Nothing 
compared  to  this  grand  Sioux  nation,  however,  was 
again  seen  on  the  journey. 

One  bright  day  in  June,  just  after  the  pow-wow  with 
the  Sioux  Indians,  there  rode  into  camp  six  horsemen, 
armed  and  equipped  for  the  journey  with  ample  ammu 
nition,  guns,  Colt's  revolvers,  bowie  knives,  and  pack 
animals  loaded  with  provisions.  The  train  appeared 
something  like  the  Queen  of  Sheba  must  have  looked 
to  Solomon,  only  there  was  no  queen,  and  the  camels 
were  not  bearing  spices  and  jewels,  but  beans  and  bacon. 

There  was  a  king,  however,  but  the  boys  called  him 
Lord  Cornwall.  He  was  a  young  man,  a  little  below 
the  medium,  with  steel-blue  eyes  that  went  searching 
right  through  men,  Indians,  problems,  anything.  *  *  A 
masterful  man,"  one  would  say,  as  he  stood  by  his  horse 
that  day,  with  his  gun  resting  its  stock  on  the  ground, 
one  hand  firmly  grasping  the  barrel,  the  other  care 
lessly  resting  on  the  rein,  together  with  a  lock  of  the 
proud  steed's  mane;  but  ready,  quick  as  thought,  to 
mount,  if  occasion  required.  There  was  an  alertness 
and  bravery  that  shone  from  every  movement  and  look, 
born  of  the  necessity  of  looking  out  for  danger.  He 
and  his  men  were  twice  taken  prisoners  by  the  Indians, 
and  twice  escaped,  while  crossing  the  plains  on  horse 
back,  with  pack  animals,  during  the  summer  of  '48. 

Those  who  know  him  well,  may  recognize  him  as  the 
president  of  the  Mechanics'  Fair;  a  man  whose  influence 
has  been  wide-felt  in  the  marts  of  trade  and  commerce, 
and  in  helping  to  mold  the  country  to  its  present 
greatness. 

It  had  been  a  hot,  long,  dusty  drive;  man  and  beast 
were  alike  tired  and  glad  of  a  rest  in  the  cool  evening 


CROSSING    THE    PLAINS.  85 

on  the  banks  of  the  bright,  clear  waters  of  North  Bear 
river.  The  cattle  had  stood  in  the  shallow  stream, 
cooled  their  swollen,  tired  limbs,  drank  their  fill  of 
the  pure  mountain  water,  and  now  had  to  be  driven  out 
to  get  their  feed  of  grass  before  dark.  The  grass  was 
green  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  and  very  tempting  to 
the  cattle,  but  the  journey  was  telling  on  their  tired 
and  stiffened  limbs,  poor,  dumb,  brutes;  many  of  them 
left  their  bones  to  bleach  on  the  plains.  They  could 
not  ask  for  liniment  as  the  men  did,  but  they  could 
bathe  their  legs  in  the  cool  water,  and  did  until  they 
were  driven  out  of  the  river. 

It  happened  to  be  Mr.  Murdstone's  evening,  with 
five  other  men,  to  drive  the  cattle  to  the  best  patches  of 
grass;  then  as  dark  set  in,  to  surround  the  whole  herd 
and  drive  them  all  into  the  corral  that  was  formed  out 
of  the  wagons,  for  security  against  the  surrounding 
savages.  Mr.  Murdstone  had  cut  along,  thrifty,  young 
willow  to  drive  the  cattle,  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  Will 
Ames,  a  boy  of  eleven,  whose  duty  it  was  to  help  drive 
the  loose  cattle  behind  the  wagons  during  the  day. 
Now  the  cattle  were  often  tempted  to  run  out  of  the 
road  on  either  side  to  eat  grass.  It  was  an  impossible 
thing  to  keep  them  in  the  road  all  day,  especially  as  the 
train  moved  very  slowly,  often  being  interrupted  and 
sometimes  stopping  for  hours.  The  cattle  had  been 
restless  with  the  heat  of  the  day  and  roamed  more  than 
usual.  The  evening  sun  was  setting,  flinging  a  wealth 
of  golden  glory  over  mountain,  sky  and  valley;  the 
camp  fires  were  smoldering.  The  young  couples  were 
wandering  on  the  banks  of  the  stream;  children  play 
ing  by  the  water's  edge,  throwing  pebbles  and  wading. 
The  old  folks  were  lounging  about  the  camp  or  sitting 
on  the  wagon  tongues.  All  was  peace  and  quiet. 

Will  Ames,  fatigued  with  driving  the  cattle,  was 
lying  on  the  ground  with  his  face  to  the  sky,  watching 
the  clouds  sailing  along  in  the  blue  ether,  tinted  with 
that  wondrous  sunset  glow,  when  his  step-father  came 
walking  into  camp  with  that  long  stick  beside  him, 
caught  "Will  by  the  arm,  saying: 


86  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

'  'Sir,  get  up,  and  I'll  settle  with  you  for  not  keeping 
the  cattle  in  the  road,  as  I  told  you  to  do  this  morn 
ing." 

Much  frightened,  the  boy  sprang  to  his  feet,  saying : 

"I  did,  sir,  try  very  hard,  but  the  cattle  would  run 
out  for  grass." 

"Ill  teach  you  to  obey  me, "and  the  long  whip  com 
menced  to  fall  on  the  boy's  shoulders. 

Captain  Warnbaugh  at  that  moment  ridiog  into  camp, 
sprang  from  his  horse,  saying: 

"  Murdstone,  hold,  what  are  you  doing?" 

The  two  men  glared  into  each  other's  eyes  like  mad 
men.  The  captain's  hand  was  on  his  revolver  in  a 
moment. 

Murdstone  hissed : 

"  He  must  obey  me  ! " 

The  captain — "  You  sir,  must  obey  me  ! " 

Murdstone,  seeing  the  revolver,  cooled  rapidly,  say 
ing  querulously: 

"Am  I  to  have  no  authority  over  my  own  house 
hold?" 

"  Authority?  yes,"  answered  the  captain,  "  but  while 
I  am  commander,  an  unborn  babe's  person  shall  be 
protected,  or  the  person  of  a  child  but  three  days  old 
shall  be  sacred.  Don't  I  take  every  precaution  to  pro 
tect  your  person  from  the  wild  savages?  And  you, 
with  your  great  strength,  can  strike  a  little  child!" 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

ARRIVING  IN  THE  VALLEY. 

It  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  give  the  details  of 
the  whole  seven  months'  trip,  as  it  would  take  the  read 
er  seven  months  to  go  over  the  ground  with  me,  and  I 
fear  he  would  find  it  wearisome. 

This  company  came  tumbling  down  the  Cascade 
Mountains  into  the  Willamette  Valley  in  the  last  days 
of  October.  The  first  thing  they  espied  that  gave  token 
of  civilization  was  an  old  worm  fence,  which  was  built 
pretty  snug  up  against  the  foot  of  the  mountain.  The 
next  "thing  that  attracted  their  attention  was  curling 
smoke,  which  looked  as  if  it  issued  from  a  chimney  in 
stead  of  from  a  camp-fire,  flat  on  the  ground.  They 
turned  a  sharp  corner  of  the  road,  and  there  was  an  old 
hen  and  her  chickens — some  dogs  commenced  to  bark, 
and  they  were  very  near  a  log  cabin  by  the  side  of  the 
road.  The  company  was  rejoiced.  People  who  have 
never  taken  so  long  a  journey  through  an  uninhab 
ited  region  can  never  imagine  the  joy  of  these  weary 
emigrants  at  the  sight  of  the  rudely-constructed  human 
habitation.  They  bought  some  eggs,  milk  and  vegeta 
bles,  camped  and  were  happy,  notwithstanding  they 
had  still  a  long  journey  to  make  after  touching  this 
little  hint  of  civilization.  But  they  could  buy  grain  for 
the  cattle  and  vegetables  for  the  camp.  The  company 
dispersed  at  this  point,  different  families  going  in  dif 
ferent  directions,  all  vowing  that  they  would  soon  meet 
again.  They  had  spent  many  a  pleasant  hour  planning 
how  they  would  take  up  their  land  claims  joining  each 
other;  how  they  would  mark  put  desirable  town-sites; 
how  they  would  lay  out  these  sites  for  prosperous  cities. 
Some  of  the  more  ambitious  ones  declared  they  would 


88  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

send  runners  out  to  meet  the  emigrants  the  next  year, 
and  so  get  ahead  of  the  neighbors  in  gathering  a  dense 
population  about  them;  whereas,  the  truth  is,  that  not 
a  dozen  of  these  families  ever  met  again,  and  the  real 
ization  of  their  dreams  passed  away  like  the  smoke  of 
the  camp-fire,  and  most  likely  were  never  thought  of 
again  in  the  busy  toil  and  stern  necessity  of  the  imme 
diate  labor  of  building  homes  for  themselves  and  fami 
lies.  The  moment  these  families  were  in  the  Cascade 
Eange  of  mountains,  and  out  of  the  range  of  the  arrows 
of  the  redskins,  they  no  longer  remained  together,  but 
traveled  just  as  they  pleased,  without  any  law  or  order. 
A  few  families  that  had  formed  friendships  staid  to 
gether,  and  assisted  each  other  over  the  almost  impas 
sable  roads.  A  few  wagons  had  made  the  trip  the  year 
before  and  traced  out  a  kind  of  road. 

The  storms,  that  winter,  had  felled  many  a  giant  fir 
across  the  almost  obliterated  track.  The  horsemen  no 
longer  remained  to  enliven  the  journey  by  their  dash 
into  camp  with  the  fine,  fat  venison  thrown  astride 
their  saddle  in  front  of  them;  and  all  this  made  the  last 
days  of  the  journey  toilsome  and  lonely  enough.  It  is 
impossible  to  imagine  how  relieved  those  weary  pilgrims 
were  when  the  broad  vista  of  the  beautiful  Willamette 
Valley  first  met  their  gaze;  when  they  saw  occasionally 
a  little  log  hut,  standing  like  a  sentinel,  giving  prom 
ise  of  the  future  civilization  of  the  Pacific  Coast. 

Mr.  Barlow,  an  enterprising  gentleman,  one  of  the 
Hudson  Bay  Company's  men,  had  pushed  out  to  the 
uttermost  confines  of  the  new  world;  had  built  a  log 
cabin  and  a  few  bridges  across  small  streams  as  you 
come  down  from  the  western  slope  of  the  Cascade 
Mountains.  At  the  last  one  he  erected  a  gate  through 
which  everyone  had  to  pass.  This  he  called  a  toll-gate, 
which  it  proved  to  be,  as  everybody  had  to  pay  one 
dollar  and  a  half  per  wagon  to  pass  through,  and  in 
this  way  we  knew  the  number  of  people  who  passed 
this  gate,  and  Mr.  Barlow  reported  that  the  whole  six 
hundred  wagons  went  through  safe  if  not  altogether 
sound.  This  report  of  itself  was  worth  the  expense,  as 


ARRIVING    IN    THE  VALLEY.  89 

it  made  everybody  happy,  and  in  after  years  they  spoke 
with  pride  of  the  good  management  of  Captain  Warn- 
baugh,  and  of  the  splendid  health  they  enjoyed  all  the 
way,  and  with  grateful  hearts  remembered  how  many 
dangers  they  had  escaped.  There  were  only  three 
deaths  reported  in  the  whole  company,  but  many  poor 
cattle  left  their  bones  to  bleach  on  the  great  sand  desert. 

The  Murdstone  family,  in  which  I  hope  the  reader 
has  not  lost  interest,  settled  in  the  Willamette  Valley, 
not  far  from  where  the  capital  of  Oregon  now  stands. 
The  Methodist  missionaries,  of  whom  there  were  about 
six  or  eight  families,  had  settled  at  this  point  a  few  years 
before,  and  built  a  school  for  Indians  on  the  site  where 
the  Willamette  University  now  stands.  They  also  put 
up  a  little  saw-mill  which  had  not  sufficient  water-power 
to  run  it  except  in  the  winter  season.  This  place  was 
called  the  Mission. 

The  Murdstones  found  a  cabin  shelter  on  a  land 
claim,  three  miles  outside  of  the  Mission,  where  they 
wintered,  as  it  was  now  in  November,  and  too  late  to 
build  a  house;  and  strange  as  it  may  seem  to  the  un 
initiated,  it  was  very  difficult  to  find  a  desirable  piece 
of  land  for  a  homestead;  not  but  what  there  were  thous 
ands  and  thousands  of  acres  of  the  best  land  that  "  ever 
crow  flew  over,"  as  Mike  Flannigau  expressed  it,  that 
was  well-watered  and  well-timbered.  But  this  handful 
of  emigrants,  and  a  few  of  the  Hudson  Bay  Company, 
together  with  the  missionaries,  had  spread  themselves 
over  just  as  much  territory  as  they  could  possibly  take, 
so  it  required  some  time  for  Mr.  Murdstone  to  look 
about  and  decide  where  he  could  wedge  himself  in, 
and  Mrs.  Murdstone  said  she  really  believed  she  had 
more  comfort  in  the  spacious  old  family  carriage  that 
the  horses  brought  safely  through.  The  children 
declared  they  did  not  want  to  live  in  a  house;  they  very 
much  preferred  living  out-doors,  but  when  the  rains 
came,  with  their  patter  on  the  roof,  they  were  glad  of  a 
shelter,  if  only  under  the  bare  rafters.  Around  that 
kitchen  table,  lighted  only  by  a  tallow  candle,  many  a 
well-thumbed  book  was  read,  many  a  hard  sum  ciphered, 


90  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

many  a  lescon  conquered,  that  winter  in  that  unpreten 
tious  cabin  home.  Mr.  Murdstone  took  charge  of  the 
class  in  arithmetic  and  writing,  for  he  was  a  suberb 
penman;  Mrs.  Murdstone  of  reading,  history  and  ge 
ography.  The  older  children  attended  the  Mission 
School ;  the  younger  children  had  only  the  advantage 
of  the  evening  school,  as  it  was  termed  by  the  house 
hold.  Evening  prayers  were  said  after  the  one  tallow 
candle  had  been  extinguished,  for  economy's  sake, 
leaving  only  the  bright  blaze  from  the  burning  fir  logs 
that  were  heaped  up  in  a  huge  pile  on  the  big  stones 
that  were  laid  on  the  hearth  in  place  of  andirons,  and 
served  the  purpose  well. 

On  the  night  of  the  twenty-ninth  of  November,  when 
the  rain  had  been  falling  in  a  soft  mist  all  day,  when 
one  of  the  logs  on  the  fire  had  burned  down  and  fallen  in 
two,  making  the  hearthstone  rather  untidy,  Mrs.  Murd 
stone,  broom  in  hand,  remarked  to  the  girls  that  it  was 
one  of  the  fundamental  principles  of  good  house-keep 
ing  to  keep  a  bright  hearthstone;  that  a  slovenly-kept 
hearth  had  sent  many  a  man  to  a  well-kept  saloon,  and 
the  wife,  left  weeping  by  the  dirty  hearth,  never  guessed 
the  reason  why. 

"  But,  mother,  there  is  not  a  saloon  on  the  Pacific 
Coast.  How  could  we  go  to  one,  even  if  the  dirt  were 
knee-high  about  our  hearth?"  inquired  the  future 
statesman,  Thomas  Ames. 

Mrs.  Murdstone,  who  like  her  son,  had  a  logical 
mind,  answered:  "  My  dear  boy,  if  the  rumors  we  hear 
of  the  gold  mines  in  California,  are  true,  not  one  year 
will  elapse  until  our  primitive  exemption  from  that 
evil  will  be  but  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  we  shall  not 
even  remember  that  there  was  a  time  in  the  early  his 
tory  of  Oregon  when  we  were  a  strictly  temperance 
people,  because  we  had  not  a  drop  of  whisky  in  the 
whole  territory,  unless  a  small  quantity  in  some  private 
medicine  chest." 

Thomas  had  been  presented  by  his  friend  with  a 
beautiful  broadcloth  cloak,  reaching  nearly  to  the 
ground,  its  chief  attraction  consisting  of  a  deep  circu- 


ARRIVING    IN    THE    VALLEY.  91 

lar  cape,  lined  with  satin.  He  used  to  toss  this  mantle 
over  his  shoulder,  in  a  truly  Caesarian  style,  when  he 
wished  to  enforce  an  argument  upon  Jean  and  his 
mother.  Standing  in  the  middle  of  that  puncheon 
floor,  manly  as  ever  Caesar  did  when  on  that  summer's 
night  in  his  tent  he  first  put  his  mantle  on,  Thomas 
tossed  back  his  mantle  till  the  soft  folds  of  cloth  and 
satin  glistened  in  the  fire-light's  glow,  as  he  said:  "I 
believe  those  stories  are  true,  and  more  than  ever  has 
been  told  us,  of  the  gold  nuggets  of  California,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  stay  around  here  and  plow  a  field  in  the 
day-time  and  sit  droning  over  a  book  at  night,  dear 
mother,  and  let  the  other  fellows  walk  off  with  bags  of 
gold,  if  your  hearthstone  is  the  dearest  and  cleanest  that 
ever  a  fire  blazed  upon.  That's  why  I'm  going  to  visit 
the  Mission  to-night,  to  see  Mr.  Marshall,  who  says  he 
will  help  three  of  us  boys  to  go  on  the  return  trip  of  the 
sailing  vessel  that  goes  out  next  week."  And  picking 
up  a  broom  splinter  he  carelessly  tossed  it  with  his 
thumb  into  the  fire,  then  walking  to  the  door,  he  said, 
"I  shall  not  be  gone  more  than  two  hours  to-night,  but 
I  hope,  to  make  all  the  arrangements  for  my  final  de 
parture,"  and  he  was  on  his  pony  and  gone  before  his 
mother  could  say  a  word.  She  rather  fell  than  sat  into 
the  nearest  chair.  "  He  is  so  young,  not  yet  seventeen 
years  old;  so  delicate;  so  handsome;  can  I,  oh,  Jean, 
can  I  part  with  him !"  the  poor  mother  moaned. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

THE  CALIFORNIA  GOLD-DIGGER. 

The  Hudson  Bay  Company's  traders  had  a  post  at 
Vancouver,  situated  on  the  banks  of  the  Columbia  Riv 
er,  at  the  point  where  the  Willamette  River's  bright 
water  meets  the  majestic  Columbia  and  flows  on  peace 
fully  to  the  sea.  The  small  sailing  vessels  belonging 
to  this  company  ventured  across  the  Columbia  bar  and 
sailed  up  the  broad  waters,  scaring  the  wild  geese,  duck, 
and  deer,  and  making  the  savages  scud  over  the  water 
in  their  swift,  darting  canoes,  to  seek  shelter  in  the 
dense  forests  that  cover  the  banks  and  stretch  away  for 
hundreds  of  miles  into  the  interior.  Even  these  little 
vessels  came  only  twice  a  year,  bringing  supplies  to  the 
company,  which  were  meager  enough  in  variety,  but 
excellent  in  quality.  These  vessels,  on  their  return  to 
New  York,  were  laden  with  furs  that  the  traders  had 
bought  from  the  Indians.  They  were  furs  of  the  otter, 
mink,  beaver  and  bear,  elk,  deer,  and  sometimes  a  buf 
falo  robe.  It  was  on  one  of  these  outgoing  sail-vessels 
that  Thomas  Ames,  with  a  company  of  about  twenty 
others,  went  to  seek  his  fortune  in  the  gold  mines. 

Our  pioneers  found  the  winters  of  '48  and  '49  very 
mild,  warm  and  rainy.  Nearly  every  day  a  slight  mist 
fell,  and  nearly  every  day  the  sun  shone  out  brightly, 
making  the  little  birds  twitter,  the  wild  flowers  bloom, 
and  the  grass  spring  up  green  and  fresh,  very  much  like 
spring  in  the  East.  The  stately  fir  trees  proudly  wore 
their  green  boughs  the  year  round;  the  only  change 
they  deigned  to  make  was  that  each  year,  after  the  pro 
pitious  rains  had  washed  their  dark  evergreen  boughs 
bright,  they  fringed  the  tips  of  each  waving  bough  with 
,a  new  growth  two  inches  deep  of  a  light  pea-green  color. 


THE    CALIFORNIA   GOLD-DIGGER.  93 

This  is  the  dignity  they  maintain  for  a  hundred  years 
or  more,  as  long  as  they  live  standing  in  those  mighty 
forests,  throwing  off  no  leaf  nor  bark — on  and  on  the 
steady  growth.     Thousands,  if  not  millions,  of   acres 
of  these  giant  trees  standing  so  close,  they  are  locked  in 
each  other's   arms,  beneath  whose  shade  it  is  dark  as 
night — the  sun  never  penetrating — no  bud,  bush  nor 
blossom  can   grow  beneath  them.     The  rich,  loamy 
earth  is  soft,  like  a  carpet  to  the  tread,  but  bare  as  a 
floor  of  all  other  growth.     Every  valley  of  Oregon  is 
dotted  with   these  stately  sentinel  evergreen  fir  trees; 
every  river  has  its  banks  lined  with  these  trees.     In  the 
mountains  are  the  hemlock  and  cedar,  and  along  the 
water-courses  the  alder,  ash,  maple  and  beautiful  oak 
quarreling  for  the  mastery,  but  the  fir  tree  stands  its 
ground  like  a  thing  of  power  and  exceeds  them  all;  while 
the  curly  maple,  as  though  angry  at  the  wrongs  done  it, 
has  curled  and  gnarled  and  knitted  itself  into  so  many 
beautiful  lines  while  growing,  that  it  is  the  handsomest 
wood  in  the  world.    Fine-grained,  and,  like  some  people, 
susceptible  of  high  polish,  it  should  take  rank  among 
the  finest  woods.     Even  so  early  as  '48,  the  missionaries 
had  a  turning-lathe,  and  constructed  furniture  out  of  this 
beautiful  curly  maple,  and  Mr.  Murdstone  secured  some 
before  the  prices  leaped  up,  as  everything  did  in  '49 
after  the  discovery  of  gold.     Who  can  tell  how  these  fir 
trees  obtained  their  mastery,  or  for  how  many  thous 
ands  of  years  they  have  held  sway  over  valley,  hill-top 
and  mountain,  lined   the  deepest  canyon's  side,   and 
stood  on  the  highest  mountain  range,  or  what  element 
in  the  soil  produces  this  masterful  tree  ?    Their  roots 
spread  into  the  soft  earth  just  as  far  as  their  boughs 
spread  into  the  air,  and  they'  penetrate  the  earth  very 
deeply,  the  giant  stems  shooting  up  into  the  air  to  a 
height  of  from  two  to  three  hundred  feet.     They  are 
wonderful  trees,  these  monopolists  of  the  great  North 
west!     If  the  prairies  of  Illinois  and  Missouri  are  awe^ 
inspiring,  what  must  be  the  feeling  that  takes  possession 
of  a  soul  contemplating  the  width,  the  length,  the  depth 
of  these  endless  forests'? 


94  THE    HEROINE   OF  '49. 

Jean  Ames,  though  a  child  as  she  was,  stood  wrapped 
in  a  dream,  thinking  of  the  great  plains,  the  vast  for 
ests,  and  the  mighty  sea,  on  whose  bosom  you  may  ride 
forever,  and  it  is  still  the  great,  mysterious,  wonderful 
sea.  Jean  was  looking  in  the  direction  of  the  sea,  that 
lay  a  hundred  miles  to  the  west,  wondering  if  her 
brother  Thomas  would  not  return,  bringing  his  bags  of 
shining  gold.  She  thought  that  he  had  only  to  go  to 
the  mines  and  pick  up  gold  as  one  would  pick  up  ker 
nels  of  corn  that  were  scattered  on  the  ground,  and 
some  of  the  nuggets  were  as  big  as  her  thumb,  she  had 
been  told.  If  this  could  be  so,  the  deepest  longing  of 
her  heart  would  be  realized,  and  she  would  go  to  the 
Mission  boarding-school.  No  girl  should  outrank  her 
in  learning.  Jean  had  shed  many  bitter  tears  when 
her  father's  library  was  sold.  How  she  longed  to  be 
in  the  society  of  scholars;  and  if  Tom  should  come, 
he  and  she  would  go  to  school  together.  How  promis 
ing  and  bright  life  was  to  her  that  day. 

This  bright  cup  of  bliss,  that  Jean  vainly  hoped  for, 
was  not  the  one  that  was  offered  her  that  day,  but  in 
stead,  the  bitterest  dregs  that  a  woman's  lips  could 
taste.  While  she  still  stood  looking,  a  man  appeared 
coming  over  the  hill  leading  a  horse.  It  was  not  her 
brother;  it  was  too  tall  a  figure.  The  man  had  a  loose, 
shambling  gait,  and  in  every  way  was  ungainly.  He 
could  not  be  her  brother,  who  was  a  young  man, 
straight  as  an  arrow,  nimble  as  a  deer,  and  graceful  in 
every  movement  as  a  young  fawn.  The  man  gave  his 
hat  a  twitch  every  few  moments  as  he  walked  along, 
turned  to  glance  at  his  horse,  and  made  a  quick,  eager 
survey  of  the  country  about  him.  All  this  attracted 
Jean's  attention,  and  she  called  her  mother,  and  they 
together  stood  watching  him  till  he  made  his  way 
straight  to  the  house.  He  still  held  his  horse,  and 
walking  up  to  the  gate,  asked  Mrs.  Murdstone  for  per 
mission  to  stop  a  day  or  two  at  her  house. 

"  My  name  is  Cursica  Miser,  and  I  own  the  adjoining 
land  claim,"  he  said,  pointing  awkwardly  in  the  direc 
tion  of  the  neighboring  hills. 


THE    CALIFORNIA   GOLD-DIGGER.  95 

Mrs.  Murdstone  and  Jean  exchanged  quick  glances, 
thinking  it  might  be  possible  that  they  would  hear  from 
Tom;  they  would  at  least  hear  much  that  would  interest 
them  in  regard  to  the  mines,  and  would  gladly  have 
given  him  a  warm  welcome,  but  he  declined,  saying  he 
would  hold  his  horse  until  Mr.  Murdstone  came,  and 
so  remained  at  the  gate.  Mr.  Murdstone  coming  soon, 
a  long  conference  was  held  between  the  two  gentlemen 
at  the  gate. 

It  ended  in  the  stranger's  uncinching  his  saddle- 
girth,  and  unfastening  heavy  loads,  that  were  firmly 
tied  to  the  pummel  of  his  saddle  on  either  side.  One, 
he  gave  to  Mr.  Murdstone,  laying  another  on  the 
ground,  while  he  disengaged  the  third.  Then  they 
cautiously  removed  the  saddle,  which  proved  to  be  a 
perfect  arsenal  of  Colts'  revolvers  and  bowie  knives, 
and  brought  them  to  the  house,  and  the  horse  with  its 
bridle  was  sent  by  Dan  Murdstone  to  the  stable. 

Mr.  Murdstone  brought  the  stranger  into  the  house 
with  his  loads.  There  was  a  heavy  solid  oak  chest 
stowed  away  under  the  rafters  in  this  cabin  chamber. 
It  had  a  strong  lock.  Mr.  Murdstone  conducted  the 
stranger  to  this  room,  and  deposited  the  heavy  bags  of 
gold  nuggets  in  the  chest.  The  two  gentlemen  had  to 
climb  to  the  loft  by  the  rounds  of  a  ladder — the  same 
primitive  construction  for  ascending  and  descending 
that  a  hod-carrier  uses.  Without  any  preliminary 
arrangements  with  Mrs.  Murdstone,  the  strange  gentle 
man  was  installed  in  the  house  as  a  boarder  for  an 
indefinite  period  of  time. 

On  being  introduced  to  Mrs.  Murdstone,  he  confided 
to  her  that,  on  account  of  the  excitement  of  the  gold- 
digging,  his  health  had  been  very  much  * '  shottered, " 
and  he  required  a  quiet  country  place  and  simple  food 
to  regain  his  usual  composure.  Mrs.  Murdstone  and 
Jean  were  very  eager  to  know  something  of  the  hard 
ships  the  miners  endured,  and  something  of  the  process 
of  gold-digging.  Mr.  Miser  seemed  reticent  on  the 
subject,  so  Mrs.  Murdstone  had  very  little  comfort 
from  his  remarks,  and  as  dinner  was  to  be  prepared 


96  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

the  two  men  were  left  to  converse  alone.  After  dinner 
the  stranger  took  his  horse  and  rode  to  his  land  claim 
to  look  over  his  possessions.  He  had  gone,  the  sum 
mer  before,  with  a  company  of  packers  overland  from 
Oregon  to  California.  The  first  $5,000  that  he  had 
picked  up  had  been  stolen  by  a  company  of  Mormons, 
and  the  next  rich  vein  he  struck  he  decided  to  get  away 
with,  and  bring  it  to  a  safe  and  quiet  corner  in  Oregon, 
where  he  had  already  some  interests.  This  he  had  told 
Mr.  Murdstone  in  their  confidence  at  the  fence.  Jean 
and  her  mother,  being  left  alone  in  the  house,  after 
sitting  thoughtfully  for  a  moment  Mrs.  Murdstone 
remarked : 

"I  wish  we  were  not  such  near  neighbors  to  the 
California  gold  mines.  Think  of  this  strong  man,  after 
being  gone  only  a  few  months,  coining  back  and  saying 
his  nerves  were  all  'shottered';  think  of  poor  Tom 
sleeping  on  the  ground  and  having  nothing  to  eat  but 
beans  and  a  little  bacon,  and  he  is  such  a  child,  and 
can't  stand  hardships  like  a  man!"  And  Jean  cried: 

"Oh,  mother,  why  couldn't  it  have  been  Tom  come 
home  with  all  that  gold?"  and  the  tears  sprung  to  her 
eyes. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  then  thought  of  the  gold  with  a  re 
pulsive  shock,  and  said : 

"Jean,  I'm  afraid  to  stay  in  the  house.  Our  home 
is  just  spoiled.  That  stranger  to  be  here  at  every  meal, 
and  we  afraid  of  being  murdered  for  his  gold,  while 
the  men  are  away  plowing  in  the  field.  But  it  is  just 
as  he  says,  there  are  no  banks  to  put  money  into  in 
this  country." 

"Well,"  answered  Jean,  "I'm  not  afraid.  There 
are  no  robbers  here.  Were  not  the  people  who  came 
with  us  across  the  plains  some  of  the  best  people  in 
the  world  ?  And  there  were  no  people  here  but  a  few 
Catholic  and  Methodist  missionaries  before  we  came, 
and  they  are  not  going  to  turn  robbers,  are  they  ?  " 


CHAPTER  XVL 

THE    LAND   LAW. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  and  Jean  were  sitting  in  a  large 
airy  room  that  was  used  for  a  bedroom,  as  well  as  a 
private  sitting-room  for  herself  and  daughters.  The 
house  was  constructed  of  logs  of  theyoung  fir  trees,which 
were  well  adapted  for  building  log  houses,  as  they 
shoot  up  tall,  straight  and  slender.  It  was  termed  a 
double  log  house,  having  two  rooms.  Nearly  all  the 
early  settlers  confined  themselves  to  a  one  roomed 
house.  This  was  eighteen  by  twenty  feet,  with  cham 
bers  above  each,  used  for  sleeping  apartments.  The 
house  was  made  more  attractive,  as  well  as  more  com 
fortable,  by  a  board  veranda  running  the  full  length  of 
the  front  of  it.  The  back  of  the  house  also  had  a  ve 
randa,  which  was  made  very  convenient  by  being  clap- 
boarded  up  one  side,  and  used  for  a  kitchen.  The 
doors  were  made  of  clapboards,  and  windows  it  had 
none,  and  yet  the  daylight  was  never  entirely  excluded. 
The  many  cracks  between  the  logs  admitted  the  day 
light,  and  often  the  sunlight.  There  were  puncheon 
floors  that  were  mado  from  boards  that  were  split  in 
stead  of  sawed;  they  were  generally  about  a  foot  wide, 
ten  feet  long,  and  two  inches  thick,  but,  like  some 
people's  word,  there  was  very  little  accuracy  about 
them.  The  clapboards  were  made  of  trees  that  split 
nicely;  they  were  usually  four  feet  long,  from  eight  to 
ten  inches  wide,  and  intended  to  be  half  an  inch  thick. 
These  were  laid  on  the  roof,  in  the  same  manner  as 
shingles,  but  as  there  were  no  nails  in  the  country, 
they  had  to  be  fastened  to  the  roof  with  long  poles, 
which  gave  the  bouse  a  somewhat  rude  and  picturesque 


98  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

appearance.  This  abode  was  situated  near  the  center 
of  their  section  of  land,  which  had  a  southern  exposure 
on  a  gently  sloping  side-hill.  Just  back  of  the  house 
was  a  beautiful  grove  of  fir,  pine  and  maple  trees,  with 
a  sprinkling  of  alders;  just  enough  to  show  that  there 
was  a  spring  of  water  flowing  from  the  ground,  which 
made  quite  a  little  brook,  that  ran  along  about  a  mile, 
and  lost  itself  in  the  rich  loam  of  the  soft,  black  earth. 
Here  the  Murdstones  made  a  garden,  and  on  the 
banks  of  this  little  rivulet  they  planted  an  orchard  of 
apples;  and  higher  on  the  ground,  where  the  hill  was 
more  sandy,  they  planted  peach  trees.  But  all  this 
planting  happened  after  the  time  of  which  we  write, 
when  Jean  and  her  mother  sat  in  the  privacy  of 
their  own  room,  deploring  the  intrusion  of  a  stranger 
into  their  family.  Mrs.  Murdstone,  smiling  at  Jean's 
simple  faith  in  the  honor  of  the  early  settlers,  said: 

"  Oh,  well,  the  Bible  teaches  us  to  be  good  to  stran 
gers,  as  we  may  entertain  angels  unawares." 

"  Does  it  caution  us  against  entertaining  strangers, 
lest  we  entertain  devils  unawares?"  queried  Jean. 
Could  they  have  known  the  truth  about  the  stranger, 
they  would  have  been  more  loth  to  entertain  him  than 
they  were. 

"Well,  Jean,  I  must  go  and  prepare  the  evening 
meal,  as  it  is  now  half  past  four." 

And  Jean  answered  pettishly:  "I  wish  our  land 
claim  was  ten  miles  wide,  so  that  the  neighbors  could 
not  come  and  impose  upon  us  by  asking  to  be  boarded." 
Now  the  homestead  that  Mr.  Murdstone  had  selected 
from  out  the  vast  domain  of  Uncle  Sam's  territory 
seemed  small,  when  compared  to  the  miles  and  miles 
of  unoccupied  land  that  lay  adjacent  thereto.  But  it 
had  been  agreed  upon  by  the  early  settlers  that  they 
would  each  claim  a  mile  square  of  the  public  laud,  and 
that  their  first  representative  to  Congress  would  be 
loaded  up  and  shipped  around  the  Horn  with  that  one 
idea,  that  one  message  from  his  constituents  to  Con- 
gross  asking  to  give  them  a  title  to  their  laud.  This 


THE  LAND  LAW.  9P 

was  no  small  undertaking,  when  one  considers  that 
those  old  statesmen  from  Rhode  Island,  Delaware  and 
New  Hampshire,  could  not  entertain  the  idea  for  a 
moment  that  a  man  could  ask  for  a  piece  of  land  for  a 
farm  that  was  almost  as  large  as  their  State.  But 
Samuel  K.  Thurston  found  broader  men  who  repre 
sented  Texas  and  Missouri,  and  the  broad  prairies  of 
the  west,  and  succeeded  in  securing  the  passage  of  the 
bill  that  gave  to  each  early  settler  his  six  hundred  and 
forty  acres  of  land.  It  was  upon  Samuel  R.  Thurston' s 
shoulders  that  the  mantle  of  congressional  honors  first 
fell,  placed  there  by  that  spartan  band  of  heroes,  the 
pioneer  men  who  laid  the  foundation  of  the  proud  State 
of  Oregon.  No  statesman  ever  filled  his  honored  post 
with  greater  zeal;  no  one's  return  was  looked  forward 
to  with  more  eager  anticipation,  nor  warmer  welcome 
ever  awaited  a  man  returning  to  the  people  he  had 
served.  But  he  did  not  live  to  receive  this  welcome, 
as  on  his  return  he  was  smitten  with  the  Panama  fever 
which  proved  fatal.  His  remains  were  brought  back, 
and  every  honor  conferred  that  affection  could  give  to 
the  noblest  man  that  ever  served  the  state,  or  perhaps 
ever  will. 

One  of  the  noblest  features  of  the  land  law  was  that 
one-half  of  each  grant  was  given  to  the  women.  No 
single  man  could  hold  more  than  three  hundred  and 
twenty  acres  of  land,  which  placed  all  the  marriageable 
women  in  the  territory  at  par  value  immediately. 
Many  an  old  bachelor  brushed  up  his  best  suit  of 
clothes,  and  hied  him  to  see  the  fairest  lady  in  the  land. 
Like  many  other  good  laws,  it  could  be  turned  to  bad 
account.  If  a  man  was  unmarried,  he  could  hold  only 
one-half  of  the  six  hundred  and  forty  acres  of  land. 
This  law  extended  over  a  term  of  years.  Men,  in  order 
to  hold  the  land  claim  they  had  staked  out  for  them 
selves,  would  hunt  for  a  wife  pretty  lively,  or  some 
other  old  bachelor  could  settle  on  one-half  of  his  land 
claim.  Girls  of  twelve  and  fourteen,  and  in  some 
cases,  only  eleven  years  of  age,  were  married  in  the 


100  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

years  of  '49  and  '50,  to  men  twice,  and  sometimes 
three  times  their  own  age.  Now,  to  the  great  credit 
of  the  parents,  and  the  men  who  contracted  with  these 
parents  for  these  young  girls  for  their  wives,  sometimes 
only  the  ceremony  of  marriage  was  enacted.  By  this 
arrangement,  the  girls  secured  the  land,  and  then  they 
were  allowed  to  remain  at  home  with  their  parents, 
sent  to  school,  and  grew  to  womanhood  before  the 
marriage  rites  were  consummated. 

Hazardous  as  this  must  have  been  to  the  future  hap 
piness  of  these  fair  young  girls  so  entrapped,  it  was  an 
infinitely  better  condition  of  affairs  than  the  fate  of 
those  young  girls  who  were  taken  by  the  marriage 
rites  by  these  selfish  men,  claimed  as  wives,  just  as  the 
land  was  claimed  by  them  simply  as  a  convenience. 
What  man,  building  a  home  on  such  broad  acres,  did 
not  need  a  slave  to  do  his  cooking,  washing,  general 
housekeeping,  as  also  a  wife,  all  in  one  and  the  same 
person  ?  How  convenient !  What  an  excuse,  when 
Congress,  the  government  of  the  United  States,  the 
solons  of  the  country,  the  picked  men  of  the  nation, 
selected  for  their  wisdom,  learning  and  far-reaching  in 
sight  into  the  well-being  of  the  people  in  whose  inter 
est  they  were  called  upon  to  legislate,  had  given  them 
such  a  bribe !  Three  hundred  and  twenty  acres  of  land 
with  a  wife,  were  not  found  every  day.  The  land  and 
wife  were  theirs  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  so  they 
thought,  for  in  those  days  men  thought  a  woman  only 
a  toy  or  a  slave  for  him.  The  idea  had  not  permeated 
the  brain  of  the  average  man  yet  that  woman  was  an 
independent,  sentient  being,  apart  from  him.  She  was 
his,  to  be,  to  do,  to  suffer,  whatever  he  dictated.  We 
shall  see,  notwithstanding  the  sanction  of  the  accumu 
lated  '  wisdom  then  in  Congress  assembled,  what  the 
results  were,  at  least  in  some  cases,  of  this  wise  land 
law. 

Mr.  Cursica  Miser  was  one  of  those  gentlemen  who 
had  a  broad  land-claim  and  no  wife.  He  could  not 
endure  the  idea  of  seeing  his  noble  section  of  land 


THE  LAND  LAW.  101 

split  in  two.     It  was  not  half  large  enough  as  it  now 
lay.     To  cut  it  in  two  would  spoil  his  future  pastures, 
his  grain-fields,  his  orchards  and  building  site.     He 
could  not  see  another  man  taking  half  his  possessions — 
not  he.     "  Congress  was  full  of  old  cranks  that  did  not 
know  a  thing  about  a  new  country.     They  ought  to 
know  that  a  man  without  a  wife  made  just  as  good  a 
citizen  as  a  man  with  a  wife,  and  what  idiots  to  pass  a 
law  that  a  man  should  marry,  when  there  are  no  wo 
men  in  the  country,  or  be  robbed  of  half  his  posses 
sions.     But  law  is  law,  if  there  isn't  an  atom  of  sense 
in  it."     Thus  debated  Mr.  Cursica  Miser.     "And  now, 
Rainbow,    we   'must   scour    the    hills   and    hunt  for 
heifers.     No  cattle  to  be  driven  to-day,  old  Bainbow," 
and  he  mounted  his  sway  back  steed,  whose  peculiar 
anatomical  formation  had  earned  him  this  soubriquet, 
and  awaj7  they  swept,  over  hill  and  down  dale,  until 
they  came  to  the  nearest  cabin,  where   lived  a  very 
poor  man  who  had  three  marriageable  daughters,  to 
gether  with  his  wife  and  three  small  girls  and  a  boy 
baby.     The   mystery  was,  how  the  family  ever  got 
across  the  plains.     The  secret  was,  a  rich  relation  had 
helped  them  start,  and  the  company  had  helped  them 
on,  and  lo!  the  wheel  of  fortune  had  brought  luck  to 
their  very  door,  and  what   glorious   luck  when  Mr. 
Miser  passed  by  their  cabin  door.     Seeing  the  ponies 
tied  near  by,  he  said  to  himself,  "  This  is  not  the  time 
to  call  there.     I  will  just  go  down  this  hill,  across  the 
creek,  and  see  if  old  Shrum's  girls  are  at  home,  or  if  they 
are  besieged  by  land-claim  hunters,  too,  as  Olinger's 
daughters  are.     He  is  in  luck,  at  least;  those  three 
girls   will   every   one   hold  some   fellow's   land-claim 
for  him.      They   are    not   bad-looking    girls,    either, 
are    they,    old    Bow?'*       And     he     leaned     forward 
and    stroked    his    horse's    mane.      The    horse    shot 
forward,  hearing  a  gallop  behind  him,  and  the  rider 
was  soon  by  Miser's  side.     The  two  men  bowed  and 
both  reined  their  steeds  at  Mr.   Shrum's  gate.     Mr. 
Chas.  Gibson  was  the  man  that  the  fair  Eufamie  was 


102  THE    HEROINE   OF  '40. 

awaiting  on  her  father's  broad  porch.  Thus  it  was 
that  Mr.  Cursica  Miser  found  himself  vanquished  on 
every  side.  He  twitched  his  hat  to  Miss  Eufame, 
bowed  to  her  mother,  asked  for  a  drink  of  water, 
twiched  his  hat  again  to  the  company,  was  on  his  horse 
and  gone  out  of  sight  and  out  of  mind  sooner  than  it 
takes  to  tell  it. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Cursica  Miser  and  Mr.  Murd- 
stone  held  another  long  discussion  at  the  gate.  Mrs. 
Murdstone  said  to  Jean,  "What  can  those  men  be 
plotting  about  ?  No  good,  I'll  warrant.  I  feel  there's 
something  wrong.  I  wonder  if  the  steamer  has 
brought  news  of  Thomas.  It's  something  they're  ar 
ranging  before  they  tell  us.  What  can  it  be,  Jean?  I 
am  ^overwhelmed  with  apprehension.  I  fancied  last 
night,  that  Mr.  Miser  kept  looking  at  you  out  from  un 
der;  his  broad-brimmed  hat.  I  don't  like  that  peculiari 
ty  in  the  man  of  looking  out  from  under  his  eyebrows.'' 

"I  don't  like  any  of  his  looks,"  returned  Jean. 
"  But  I  don't  know  what  he  is  to  us  that  we  need  care 
for  his  'tricks  and  his  manners,'  and  I  don't  see  why 
you  need  care,  mother,  if  two  men  stood  and  talked  at 
the  gate  till  doomsday.  Like  St.  Paul :  '  I  thank  God 
I  am  not  like  other  men,'  and  that  I  was  not  born  a 
coward.  '  Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof,' " 
and  she  put  her  arm  around  her  mother  and  kissed  a 
tear^way.  "There,  the  conference  is  finished,  and 
eaclrman  is  going  his  own  way.  Dry  your  tears,  dear 
mother." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

"  THE  MAN  LET  THE  NUGGETS  FALL  SOFTLY  BACK. " 

If  the  reader  will  go  back  to  Mr.  Shrum's  porch,  and 
listen  to  the  lovers'  talk,  this  is  what  they  will  hear 
them  say.  "  I  hope  that  man,  Mr.  Miser,  doesn't  visit 
here?" 

"No,  Charles,  not  often;  Mr.  Miser  has  just  re 
turned  from  the  gold  mines;  did  you  meet  him  there?" 

"Well,  no,  not  exactly.  I  did  not  meet  him,  but  he 
met  my  revolver.  No  man  was  ever  truer  named,  and 
yet  mothers  are  so  anxious  to  have  their  daughters 
married  to  rich  men,  that  some  poor  girl  will  get  woful- 
ly  taken  in  by  that  wretch  yet.  Why  he  was  too  mean 
to  eat  beans  up  on  Feather  River  last  fall,  and  the  boys 
all  got  down  on  me  because  the  cuss  came  from  the  same 
territory.  Why  every  man  on  the  bar  despised  Oregon 
because  he  was  so  mean,  suspicious  and  stingy.  He  was 
glad  enough  to  leave  Feather  River  and  go  to  Mormon 
Island.  They  would  have  hanged  him  if  he  hadn't  left 
the  very  day  he  did,  and  I  would  have  been  glad  to 
help  pull  the  rope,  and  twice  glad  if  I  ever  thought  he 
would  come  between  you  and  me,  Eufamie.  He  would 
starve  his  wife  and  strangle  his  children  because  they 
had  to  eat." 

"Charles  Gibson,  are  you  sure  what  you  say  is 
true  ?  "  asked  Eufamie,  looking  grave  for  a  moment, 
as  with  a  shudder  she  thought  of  the  time  she  had 
seriously  contemplated  becoming  Mrs.  Miser  herself. 

* '  Yes,  I  am  sure.  Mining  life  brings  out  a  fellow's 
real  character  as  nothing  else  ever  can.  You  remem 
ber,  Eufamie,  that  I  wrote  you  a  letter  telling  of  the 
death  of  poor  Martin  Farnsworth.  Everybody  tried  to 


104  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

keep  that  poor  fellow  alive.  You  see  he  had  been  out 
prospecting;  he  was  lithe  as  a  cat,  with  a  hand  fair  as 
a  woman's."  Here  Charles  took  Eufamie's  little,  plump 
hand,  patted  it,  and  stooping  gracefully  as  a  courtier, 
carried  it  to  his  lips,  and  so  absorbed  was  he,  thinking 
of  the  fate  of  poor  Martin,  that  a  tear  fell  on  Eufamie's 
hand.  It  was  that  tear  that  won  the  hesitating  girl  to 
his  side.  Without  seeming  to  notice  the  tear  that 
silently  fell,  a  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Martin  Farns- 
worth,  the  boy  geologist,  who  kissed  his  widowed 
mother  a  last  farewell  in  New  York  six  short  months 
before,  Charles  went  on:  "  Martin  knew  the  rocks,  the 
names  of  everything  about  them;  he  knew  the  gold- 
bearing  quartz,  the  placer  mining,  the  gulch  digging, 
and  everything,  for  he  had  studied  what  other  men  had 
found  out  about  mining  in  other  countries,  and  had  put 
into  books;  he  located  our  diggings  where  we  struck  it 
rich.  One  morning,  Mart  said  to  me :  '  Charles,  I  am 
going  to  find  out  how  far  up  these  gulches  a  fellow  can 
find  gold;  I'm  going  to  the  head  of  this,  and  prospect 
every  inch  of  ground.'  I  said:  'Mart,  you've  got  a 
good  pile  now.  If  I  were  you  I'd  be  getting  out  of 
these  mountains  back  to  my  poor  old  mother.'  But 
Mart  said :  c  Charley,  that's  my  mother's  address,'  hand 
ing  me  a  scrap  of  paper,  '  you  see  that  she  has  my  pile, 
if  any  thing  should  turn  up,*  and  he  looked  down  soberly 
at  his  feet  for  a  minute.  He  was  a  handsome  fellow, 
tall  and  shapely  as  you  would  see  among  a  thousand 
men.  The  clouds  were  sailing  along  half  way  up  the 
mountain  side.  Mart  looked  up  and  said :  '  Charley, 
look  for  me  above  the  clouds  in  two  hours  from  now.' 
'  Yes,'  said  I,  '  and  if  a  grizzly  prospects  you,  let's  hear 
your  gun  talk,  and  I  will  be  with  you,  Mart.'  I  could 
hear  his  merry  whistle,  Eufamie,  and  I  can  hear  that 
whistle  yet  whenever  I  shut  my  eyes.  Poor  Mart 
walked  straight  to  his  death.  He  got  lost  and  was  out 
all  night.  There  came  a  deep  snow.  He  had  found  a 
grizzly,  shot  at  it,  only  wounding  it,  and  then  followed  a 
fierce  contest  with  the  wounded  beast,  and  at  last  he 
succeeded  in  getting  his  revolver  into  the  enraged 


THE  MAN  LET  THE  NUGGETS  FALL.  105 

brute's  mouth,  and  shooting  twice  into  his  throat  killed 
the  terrific  monster.  We  tracked  the  grizzly  and  found 
Martin,  torn,  mangled.  God!  what  a  sight.  He  was 
lying  there  by  the  bear,  having  drunk  its  warm  blood, 
and  so  kept  alive.  We  brought  him,  laid  as  carefully 
as  we  could  in  a  blanket,  down  that  awful  mountain  side. 
It  was  a  three  miles'  walk  around  the  side  of  the 
mountain,  and  I  never  let  go  my  end  of  the  blanket. 
Poor  fellow,  it  hurt  him  so  if  we  stumbled  over  a 
stick  or  stone,  or  jostled  him  in  the  least,  or  didn't 
hold  him  on  a  level,  which  was  a  very  difficult  thing  to 
do  on  a  steep  mountain  side.  The  bear  lay  there  with 
one  half  of  the  skin  torn  from  its  body.  Mart  said  he 
pulled  the  hide  of  the  beast  over  him  to  keep  from 
freezing  to  death.  *  His  old  carcass,'  boys,  he  said,  *  kept 
warm  until  most  morning.  I  was  afraid  the  wolves 
would  come,  boys,  before  you  found  me,  or  I  should 
have  shot  every  ball  from  the  revolver,  only  for  the 
horror  of  being  eaten  alive  by  these  cannibal  wolves. 
It  was  dark  when  the  bear  came  at  me;  do  you  see  that 
leg?  He  tore  that  first,  then  let  his  paws  sink  into 
the  flesh,  and  stripped  it  from  the  bone.  I  shot  him 
in  the  shoulder;  then  he  let  that  paw  sink  into  my  back, 
that  made  me  sick  for  a  minute.  He  reared  back  and 
let  his  paws  fall  here.'  And  we  could  see  the  bone  of 
his  arm  from  the  shoulder  to  the  elbow,  all  bare,  Eu- 
famie — it  was  sickening." 

Eufamie  had  her  apron  to  her  eyes. 

"There  were  twenty  men  gathered  about  him  in  a 
minute,  and  twenty  guns  were  fired  as  soon  as  we  heard 
him  speak,  and  knew  he  wasn't  dead.  We  had  agreed 
on  the  morning  before  we  left  camp,  to  fire  twenty  guns 
if  we  found  him  alive,  ten  if  dead.  Our  guns  spoke  of 
Mart's  being  alive  to  a  thousand  anxious  men  who  had 
dropped  pick-axe  and  shovel  to  scour  hill-side  and 
mountain  for  the  brave  man  who  had  been  the  most 
successful  prospector  in  camp.  Mart  had  torn  up  his 
shirt  and  tied  up  his  leg  very  well,  better  than  we 
thought  he  could,  with  his  wounded  arm,  but  he  had 
only  crowded  the  wound  together  on  his  back  as  well 


106  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

as  he  could,  and  lay  there  on  his  face  with  the  bearskin 
drawn  tightly  over  him;  the  snow  was  covered  with 
blood  all  round.  When  we  took  the  poor  fellow  up 
there  wasn't  a  dry  eye  among  us.  Mart  said :  '  Boys,  I 
knew  you  would  come.  Don't  ever  let  mother  know 
this.  It  will  soon  be  all  over  with  me.'  He  lived  three 
days.  We  buried  him  under  the  pine  close  by  camp. 
The  wolves  couldn't  get  him  there,  and  in  the  spring 
just  when  I  left,  we  put  him  in  a  rough  box,  sent  it 
down  to  'Frisco,  and  shipped  it  home  to  his  mother. 

"The  second  day  we  brought  him  into  camp,  it  was 
plain  to  everyone  he  couldn't  live.  He  got  restless, 
the  fever  grew  high,  he  kept  saying,  'Mother,  mother!' 
and  we  knew  he  was  getting  delirious.  Mart  had 
helped  to  locate  the  diggings,  you  see,  so  we  took  up  a 
collection.  His  pile  amounted  to  $7,000,  and  we  added 
three,  making  $10,000.  I  weighed  it,  poured  it  into  a 
big  gold-quartz  pan,  and,  showing  it  to  him,  told  him 
what  we  had  done.  The  tears  came  into  his  eyes,  he 
choked  up,  and  tried  to  say  'mother.'  He  lay  still  a 
long  time,  then,  with  a  great  effort,  tried  to  speak,  and 
we  gathered  this,  '  God  save  you  boys,  from  death  in 

the  mountains hard  to  die  among  one's  friends 

but  this  is  harder.  You  have  blunted  my  agony  by 
your  generosity  to  my  mother.'  He  soon  fell  into  a 
stupor  and  never  spoke  again."  Here  Charles  broke 
down  utterly,  and  let  the  tears  stand  on  his  eyelids, 
but  seeing  Eufamie  couldn't  speak  for  fear  her  voice 
would  betray  the  emotion  the  story  had  awakened, 
roused  himself,  and  pursued:  "When  we  were  taking 
up  the  collection  for  Martin's  mother,  I  went  to  Miser 
myself.  I  was  sure  he  wouldn't  give  anything,  and  ho 
didn't.  He  whined  out  an  excuse  that  he  didn't  pan 
out  anything  that  day.  In  the  evening,  just  at  sun 
down,  when  the  remains  of  poor  Martin  were  already 
in  the  rough  box  where  we  had  laid  him,  and  the  men 
had  come  to  take  a  last  look  at  their  dead  comrade,  Jim 
Gregory  said,  '  Pals,  we've  no  flowers  to  place  about 
him,  but  let  us  cover  his  coffin  with  evergreen  boughs, 
to  show  that  our  memory  for  the  noble  hero  who  has 


THE  MAN  LET  THE  NUGGETS  FALL.          107 

lost  his  life  in  our  common  cause — hunting  for 
gold — will  ever  be  green,  and  to  show  that  his 
efforts  were  not  in  vain,  place  the  pan  of  gold  on  the 
coffin,  letting  every  man  in  camp  take  heart  that  though 
death  meet  him,  his  labors  will  not  be  lost  to  the 
friends  he  loves !'  We  did  as  Gregory  had  suggested, 
covered  the  coffin  with  evergreen  boughs,  and  set  the 
pan  of  gold  in  the  center  to  remain  all  night.  We  put 
six  picked  men  at  the  foot  of  the  coffin  near  the 
camp-fire,  as  watchers.  We,  that  had  been  his  most  inti 
mate  friends,  rolled  ourselves  in  our  blankets  and  lay 
down  to  rest  for  the  night.  We  were  worn  out  with  watch 
ing.  That  morning  at  about  four  o'clock  I  saw  a  man 
crawl  along  on  all  fours  stealthily  like  a  cat,  and,  reach 
ing  out  his  long  fingers,  almost  touch  the  pan  that  held 
the  nuggets.  I  held  my  breath,  everything  was  still  as 
death,  the  fire  had  burned  to  embers.  There  was  a 
faint  star-light,  I  could  hear  the  men  breathing  heavily, 
I  thought —  God  forgive  me  —  that  it  was  Jim  Gregory. 
But  at  that  moment  one  of  the  watchers  stretched  his 
legs,  yawned,  wrapped  his  blankets  about  him,  and 
soon  snored  again.  At  the  moment  he  did  so,  the  man 
let  the  nuggets  fall  softly  back,  flattened  himself  on  the 
ground,  and  turned  his  face  full  to  mine.  I  saw  him 
plain  as  I  see  you  this  minute,  Eufamie.  I  was  in  the 
corner  of  the  cabin  where  it  was  dark,  and  it  was  evi 
dent  that  he  did  not  see  me.  It  was  Miser.  I  yawned 
to  make  believe  I  had  just  waked  up,  turned  over  and 
called  to  Jake  Foley,  who  sat  on  a  stool  in  the  corner 
near  me,  to  stir  the  fire.  Then  Jake  and  I  talked  now 
and  again  till  morning." 

Eufamie  turned  her  tear-stained  eyes  full  upon 
Charles  Gibson,  saying,  "Why  didn't  you  call  the  camp 
and  have  him  hang"ed?" 

'  *  Why,  Eufamie,  what  could  I  do  ?  There  we  were, 
all  rolled  in  our  blankets  on  the  ground.  A  dozen  men 
might  have  reached  out  their  hands  the  same  as  he 
did.  I  knew  no  one  saw  him  but  me.  The  act  could 
not  be  reproduced  if  I  had  called  the  camp,  and  there 
was  no  proof.  If  I  had  not  happened  here  just  as  J 


108  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

did,  in  half  an  hour  he  would  have  asked  you  to  be  his 
wife,  the  villain ! " 

"  He  would  never  have  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,  for 
I  should  not  have  given  him  the  opportunity,"  was  the 
spirited  reply  of  Eufamie. 

No  words  could  have  passed  the  proud  girl's 
lips  that  could  have  given  her  lover  more  delight, 
and  yet  he  seemed  all  unconscious,  and  went  on  to 
say:  "We  sent  the  gold  to  his  mother,  but  what 
recompense  could  that  be  in  her  old  age,  compared 
with  the  companionship  and  care  of  such  a  son.  Miser 
was  the  only  man  in  camp  who  did  not  put  an  ounce  of 
gold  in  the  pan  to  make  up  the  sum,"  and  Charles  Gib 
son's  wrath  increased  like  an  avalanche  as  he  con 
tinued:  "That  villainous  Miser  is  rightly  named;  he 
will  go  and  ask  some  woman  to  marry  him,  just  to  save 
his  land  claim.  It  may  be  a  young  girl;  or,  if  he  can't 
get  a  white  woman  he  will  marry  a  squaw,  and  I  pity 
the  squaw,  for  there  is  not  one  on  the  Pacific  coast  but 
is  infinitely  his  superior.  Such  a  base  villain  as  that 
ask  a  woman  to  marry  him,  to  secure  his  land  claim ! 
There  is  no  baseness  on  earth  that  he  would  not  stoop 
to  for  gain." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  are  not  inclined  to  be  charitable  to 
wards  Mr.  Miser,"  smilingly  returned  Eufamie,  looking 
intently  at  an  old  hen  and  chickens  that  were  scratch 
ing  gravel  a  few  feet  away. 

'  *  Charity !  I  hope  not.  If  I  had,  I  should  hate  myself 
as  1  hate  him  now.  The  sight  of  the  man  has  spoiled  my 
afternoon  with  you.  I  came  here  intending  to  tell  you 
tHe  deepest  desire  of  my  heart,  but  now  I  think  I  shall 
wait  three  years,  until  this  land  law  is  extinct.  I  would 
not  be  such  a  craven  for  worlds  as  to  ask  a  woman  to 
marry  me  simply  to  secure  a  piece  of  government 
land." 

Eufamie,  without  stopping  to  think  what  the  import 
of  her  words  might  be,  said,  "No  one  would  ever  ac 
cuse  you  of  such  a  thing." 

Charles  Gibson  passionately  took  her  hand  in  his  and 
asked,  "My  dear  girl,  would  you  not  in  three  days' 


THE  MAN  LET  THE  NUGGETS  FALL. 

time  be  looking  questioningly  into  my  eyes  to  know 
whether  I  had  asked  you  to  be  my  wife  for  love  or 
land?" 

And  Eufamie,  answering,  said, '  'Never,  Charles,  could 
I  impute  a  dishonorable  motive  to  you." 

"My  dear  girl,  if  that  be  really  true,  will  you  be  my 
wife?" 

"Gladly,  Charles,"  she  answered,  "if  there  were 
not  a  foot  of  land  in  the  whole  world." 

"We'll  be  happy,  Eufamie,  and  never  think  of  old 
Miser  again  while  we  live.  Such  words,  Eufamie,  from 
the  lips  of  a  woman  that  a  man  loves  ought  to  make  him 
feel  prouder  than  a  king,  when  amidst  deceit,  falsehood 
and  the  basest  fraud,  a  man  may  so  conduct  himself  that 
no  one  can  impute  a  wrong  motive  to  his  acts.  Surely, 
Eufamie,  you  are  my  better  self  that  holds  the  mirror 
of  my  inmost  soul,  reflecting  the  noblest  instincts  of 
my  being.  Sweet  girl,  will  the  rest  of  your  family  and 
our  neighbors  read  my  heart  and  acts  as  royally  as  you 
do  ?  You  are  all  the  world  to  me,  and  they  shall  read 
my  acts  by  your  interpretation;  and  since  you  will  it 
so,  government  lands  shall  not  hasten  or  hinder  our  mar 
riage  vows,  my  love."  And  Charles  Gibson  clasped  the 
fair  form  of  Eufamie  to  his  manly  heart,  to  be  sheltered 
there  forever. 

And  thus  we  leave  the  honest,  happy  pair,  to  see 
what  discoveries  we  can  make  by  observing  the  myste 
rious  maneuvers  of  Mr.  Cursica  Miser,  some  days  hav 
ing  elapsed  since  we  saw  him  so  abruptly  leave  the  fair 
Eufamie  to  the  tender  care  of  Mr.  Charles  Gibson. 
Long  conferences  had  been  held  at  the  gate  by  Miser 
and  Murdstone.  Mrs.  Murdstone's  anxiety  was  daily 
increasing.  Not  a  syllable  had  been  spoken  to  her  by 
her  husband  of  what  was  the  subject  of  these  long  talks. 
Oh,  how  she  appreciated  her  far-away  friend,  Doctor 
Knight.  What  would  she  not  give  for  an  hour's  advice 
from  him !  She  was  sure  there  was  some  evil  hatching, 
and  yet  she  was  ashamed  to  suspect  her  husband.  If 
there  was  not  some  mischief  brewing,  then  why  so  much 
mystery?  Jean  was  quick  to  lay  bare  her  step-father's 


110  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

acts  with  scathing  criticism.  This  made  Mrs.  Murd- 
stone  bear  more  patiently  the  torture  she  was  undergo 
ing  than  she  otherwise  would.  If  Jean  understood  that 
these  long  talks  between  Miser  and  Murdstone  caused 
her  mother  anxiety,  she  would  fearlessly  speak  to  them, 
which  would  put  the  gentlemen  on  their  guard,  and 
Mrs.  Murdstone  would  thereby  lose  any  possibility  of 
gaining  a  clue  to  their  mysterious  plotting,  and  thus  be 
deprived  of  the  opportunity  of  defending  herself.  And 
so  Mrs.  Murdstone  passed  her  days  in  watching  and  her 
nights  in  sleepless  vigil. 

After  this  plotting  had  been  going  on  for  a  week  or 
two,  one  morning  Mrs.  Murdstone  arose  with  eyes  so 
swollen  and  red  with  weeping  that  she  could  not  appear 
at  the  breakfast  table.  Jean  had  to  take  her  mother's 
place.  She  was  wrathful.  She  had  begun  to  surmise 
that  those  two  men  who  sat  opposite  her  were  the  cause 
of  her  mother's  grief,  and  she  poured  out  vengeance 
along  with  the  coffee,  which  was  not  wholly  unobserved 
by  the  two  gentlemen.  She  saw  some  telegraphic 
dispatching  to  each  other  from  the  eyes  of  the  gentle 
men.  When  her  duty  was  over  she  excused  herself 
without  tasting  a  morsel,  and  went  in  search  of  her 
mother.  She  found  her  in  her  bed-room  and  on  her 
knees,  her  bible  open  beside  her,  pouring  out  her  soul 
in  supplication  to  God  to  spare  her  from  this  great 
trial,  to  spare  Jean  to  her  for  years  to  come.  "As  I 
am  merciful  and  tender  to  the  little  orphan  girls  in 
trusted  to  my  care,  be  Thou  tender,  oh,  Father  in 
heaven,  to  my  little  one.  She  is  dearer  to  me  than  my 
own  life.  Spare  her;  oh,  Father,  spare  me!"  There 
she  broke  into  such  loud  sobbing  her  whole  frame 
trembled,  and  she  could  no  longer  speak.  Jean,  who 
had  crept  softly  in,  heard  these  last  few  words  of 
pleading.  She  could  not  endure  this,  and  knelt  beside 
her  mother,  saying,  "  I  am  with  you,  mother;  what  is  the 
matter?  Nothing  shall  hurt  me.  See,  I  am  here,  and 
will  be  always."  Then  the  sobbing  broke  out  again 
like  a  storm  that  would  not  be  stayed.  Her  tears  fell 
on  Jean's  hair  and  neck,  and  trickled  down  her  back. 


THE  MAN  LET  THE  NUGGETS  FALL.  Ill 

This  made  Jean  wrathful  again,  and  she  sprang  to 
her  feet  like  a  young  lioness,  exclaiming,  "Mother, 
mother,  get  up  and  stop  crying !  This  will  never  do ! 
You  will  be  sick  and  die,  and  I  shall  be  the  one  that  is 
left  alone.  This  would  kill  anybody.  I  would  not  cry 
like  that  for  all  the  men  that  ever  lived." 

"  Nor  I,  my  child,  but  for  you,  and  your  poor  dead 
father,  how  he  would  have  protected  you;  your  brothers, 
so  far  away,  and  all  my  kith  and  kin,  all  our  dear  friends. 
In  one  deluge  of  tears  I  weep  for  all  these  woes;  hav 
ing  suffered,  I  dread  the  tortures  that  are  to  come,  and 
so  1  weep.  Poor,  poor  child,  you  are  so  young." 

"I  was  younger  yesterday,  and  you  did  not  weep. 
There  must  be  some  other  cause.  Has  my  noble  step 
father  at  last  consented  that  I  shall  attend  the  Mission 
boarding-school  ?  " 

"No,  child,  it  is  not  that;  how  gladly  would  I  have 
you  attend  that  school. " 

"Why  don't  you  be  strong,  mother,  as  I  am;  don't 
ask  God  to  make  you  strong,  but  be  strong,  say;  *  Jean 
goes  to  school,'  and  that  would  end  all  the  trouble. 
When  I  am  a  woman,  mother,  I'll  not  deluge  my  grief 
with  tears,  and  if  anybody  makes  me  cry  what  do  you 
think  they'll  be  doing  ?  " 

Here  a  faint  smile  lighted  Mrs.  Murdstone's  face,  as 
she  said:  "Oh,  Jean;  I  hope  God  will  not  send  such 
trials  to  you,  but  *  whom  God  loves  he  also  chasteneth.' 
Let  us  kiss  the  rod." 

"Oh,  no,  mother;  I'm  not  the  ' kissing-rod '  kind." 

Then  Jean  persuaded  her  mother  to  bathe  her  face  in 
cold  water,  and  gave  her  some  coffee  and  tucked  her 
up  in  bed,  saying  half  to  herself,  "When  you  awake 
we'll  see  what  can  be  done  to  rid  the  house  of  its 
pest." 

Next  morning  the  usual  conference  was  not  held  at  the 
gate,  but  at  the  farthest  end  of  the  field,  a  half  a  mile 
away.  The  old  horse  stood  in  the  furrow  for  two  long 
hours,  while  the  two  gentlemen  sat  on  the  top  rail  01 
the  fence  and  talked. 

Mr.  Cursica  Miser  had  decided  to  go  on  a  fishing 


112 


THE    HEROINE    OF  '49 


and  hunting  excursion  to  the  mountains  for  a  couple 
of  months.  He  had  told  Mr.  Murdstone  to  cautiously 
ascertain  from  his  wife  what  the  chances  would  be  fol 
him  to  secure  the  hand  of  Jean  in  marriage. 


CHAPTEli  XVIII. 


Jean's  manner  at  the  breakfast  table,  and  Mrs. 
Murdatone's  non-appearance  on  the  preceding  morn 
ing,  caused  Mr.  Miser  to  decide  in  his  own  mind  that 
he  would  abandon  the  idea  of  asking  that  proud  little 
minx  to  share  his  lordly  wealth.  He  said  to  himself, 
"  I  would  rather  marry  a  squaw;  I  could  beat  her  every 
day,  and  there  would  be  no  resistance."  But  he  did 
not  say  so  to  Mr.  Murdstone.  He  simply  told  him  to 
explain  to  his  wife  that  he  had  gone  away,  and  when 
he  did  return  he  would  most  likely  be  a  married  man. 
Jean's  mother  had  to  keep  her  bed  for  several  days,  and 
most  of  the  work  for  the  large  family  devolved  upon 
Jean.  Her  moments  for  reading,  recreation  or  rest 
were  few,  but  she  did  try  each  day  to  snatch  a  half 
hour  to  kneel  in  prayer  in  her  leafy  bower  that  she 
had  made  for  herself,  in  a  grove  of  trees  that  sheltered 
the  spring,  with  its  bubbling  fountain  of  pure,  sparkling 
water.  Just  before  you  came  to  the  spring,  the  path 
that  led  to  the  house  had  been  cut  through  the  tangled 
wild  vine-maple  that  grows  about  three  inches  in  di 
ameter.  It  runs  on  the  ground,  twists  and  turns,  and 
locks  itself  back  and  forth,  and  finally  ends  in  a  tangled 
mass  of  leaf  and  bough,  ten  or  fifteen  feet  high.  No 
wild  beast  can  make  a  path  through  a  grove  of  vine- 
maple.  But  Jean,  by  bending  some  of  the  less  refrac 
tory  boughs,  had  penetrated  a  rod  or  two  from  the 
path  into  this  deep  seclusion,  where  she  had  constructed 
a  rude  altar  and  covered  it  with  long  silky  mosses  that 
grow  on  the  fir-trees  of  that  region.  No  sunlight  could 
enter,  and  the  little  daylight  that  came  flickering  in 


114  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

through  the  leaves  made  the  place  as  solemn  as  a  sanc 
tuary  in  some  dim  old  cathedral. 

The  girl  had  just  room  to  kneel.  If  she  moved, 
after  getting  into ,  the  quiet  nook,  the  leaves  would 
brush  her  hair  and  almost  startle  her  as  though  they 
were  living  things  that  knew  she  came  to  worship 
there.  They  would  taunt  her  with  her  ignorance  and 
unworthiness.  She,  a  little  orphan  child,  dare  to  bend 
in  the  presence  of  Almighty  God,  the  liuler  of  the 
universe,  the  mighty  Potentate  of  all  power;  who 
made  the  earth,  set  the  stars  in  the  heavens,  lighted 
all  with  sun  and  moon,  and  these  mighty  orbs  were  the 
same  that  lighted  all  the  land  in  the  East,  as  well  as  in 
the  far  West.  Jean  could  not  utter  a  word  aloud,  but 
was  every  day  surprised  to  find  how  her  thoughts 
would  flow  in  her  silent  prayer  to  God.  Every  day  she 
•asked  for  wisdom,  even  as  Solomon  had  asked  to  be 
endowed  with  wisdom  above  his  fellows. 

"Oh,  God,  grant  me  wisdom  above  the  women  of 
ray  day;  teach  me  what  is  right,  and  when  I  know  the 
right,  help  me  to  be  strong  to  do  right  always." 

Just  as  Jean  had  finished  these  words,  she  heard 
footsteps,  and  in  a  moment  Mr.  Miser  was  saying  to 
Mr.  Murdstone,  "I'll  loan  you  all  the  money  you  want 
to  improve  your  place  for  the  next  two  years,  and 
charge  you  no  interest,  but  we  must,  in  some  way, 
keep  Mrs.  Murdstone  in  ignorance  of  this  land  law,  or 
she  will  suspect  our  motives."  Mr.  Murdstone 
answered,  "  You  can  rely  on  me.  I  will  do  all  in  my 
power  to  make  my  wife  look  favorably  upon  your 
suit.  But  there  I  Don't  say  another  word.  I  see  the 
water-bucket  at  the  spring,  and  Jean  is  somewhere 
near."  The  two  men  turned  and  walked  back  to  the 
house,  and  Jean  heard  no  more.  She  stepped  cautiously 
out  of  the  bower,  then  stooped  and  dipped  her  bucket 
into  the  water  that  was  nearly  as  deep  as  a  well,  and 
mirrored  back  her  features  as  clearly  as  any  looking- 
glass.  She  often  lingered  over  the  curb  to  catch  the 
outlines  of  her  face  that  were  as  fine  as  chiseled  marble. 


lfHE  MAIDEN'S  SACRED  BOWER.  1 15 

But  this  time  she  hastened  with  her  bucket,  brimful 
of  the  sparkling  water,  to  her  mother,  and  told  her 
what  she  had  heard.  The  words  meant  nothing  to  Jean, 
but  to  her  mother  they  were  clear  as  crystal,  and  gave 
her  an  insight  into  the  premeditated  arrangements  of 
the  two  men,  as  perhaps  no  other  words  could  have 
done. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Miser  started  off  on  his  fishing 
and  hunting  excursion.  The  restful  quiet  that  came 
to  that  house  proved  a  blessing  indeed  to  Mrs.  Murd- 
stone,  who,  having  the  tension  taken  off  her  nerves, 
was  soon  restored  to  her  usual  health.  The  Murd- 
stones  were  happy  for  the  next  two  months,  laying 
plans  for  improving  their  large  tract  of  land,  dividing 
it  into  fields  for  wheat,  oats,  gardens,  orchards,  pastures 
for  the  calves,  pastures  for  the  milk-cows,  oxen  and 
work-horses.  The  potato-patch  and  bean-field  all  had 
to  be  considered,  and  the  right  place  to  be  selected  for 
each.  The  pasture  must  have  running  water,  and,  as 
there  was  a  creek  running  through  the  entire  length  of 
the  east  and  south  sides,  this  question  settled  itself. 
But,  not  understanding  the  exact  quality  of  land,  or  the 
conditions  of  climate  that  the  grain-fields  and  orchards 
required,  it  took  many  a  talk  and  many  a  walk  before 
the  best  location  could  be  decided  upon.  But  there 
was  still  the  more  important  question  crowding  itself 
upon  that  little  community — that  of  building  a  school- 
house  that  would  answer  for  a  church  as  well.  As  the 
large  front-room  at  the  Murdstone's  was  always  neat, 
commodious  and  cheerful,  the  neighbors  had  already 
met  there  several  times  to  hold  a  kind  of  church 
service.  Mr.  Murdstone  read  the  scriptures  in  a  clear, 
strong  voice,  and  Mrs.  Murdstone  was  gifted  in 
prayer,  as  also  that  rarest  of  womanly  charms,  a 
fine  contralto  voice,  that  could  sing  "Nearer,  My 
God  to  Thee,"  or  "  Jesus  Lover  of  My  Soul," 
in  tones  that  would  melt  a  heart  of  stone,  and  draw 
sinners  to  worship  her,  if  they  did  not  their  Father 
in  heaven.  So  here  they  gathered  to  discuss  the  ques- 


116  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

tion  of  where  they  would  build,  how  and  when.  Mr. 
Waldovere  was  the  richest,  and  far  the  most  learned 
man  in  the  hills.  He  had  been  there  the  greatest 
length  of  time,  but  alas!  he  was  a  strong  character,  and 
would  allow  no  man  to  dictate  terms  to  him,  certainly 
no  preacher.  He  knew  just  as  much  about  heaven  and 
hell  as  they  did,  and  he  could  consign  his  neighbors  to 
one  or  the  other  place  with  equal  facility.  He  said 
hell  was  invented  by  priests  and  kings  to  enslave  their 
fellow-men.  Waldovere  and  Murdstone  would  lock 
horns,  and  talk  bible  and  history  until  the  dinner  was 
announced,  when  all  differences  were  drowned  in  a 
fragrant  cup  of  coffee,  biscuit  that  would  melt  in  your 
mouth,  with  butter  that  had  the  cream  taste  all  left  in; 
baked  potatoes  that  were  as  mealy  and  light  as  flour; 
often,  delicious  wild  venison;  sometimes  grouse,  cooked 
with  cream  gravy;  now  and  again,  mountain  trout, 
with  their  silver  sides  lightly  browned;  and  to-day 
their  dinner  was  finished  with  wild  blackberry  pie.  If 
you  have  never  eaten  the  wild  blackberry  of  Oregon, 
dear  reader,  you  must  know  that  it  is  the  best  fruit 
that  has  ever  been  invented  in  nature's  great  chemical 
laboratory  for  making  pies.  Mr.  Waldovere  remarked 
to  Mr.  Murdstone,  who  sat  next  to  him:  "  Your  wife  is 

a  good  cook,  and  there's  not  a  d bit  of  step-mother 

about  her.  I  don't  believe  she  uor  the  children  can 
tell  which  is  which,"  and  the  happy  children  looked  up 
with  their  mouths  full,  wondering  what  he  meant.  But 
the  curly-headed  baby  Murdstone  stuck  itself  under  the 
tenderly  caressing  arm  of  Mrs.  Murdstone,  pouting  out 
her  lips  defiantly,  saying: 

"You  is  my  mamma,"  and  the  mother  snuggling 
her  up  closer,  says: 

"  Yes,  Tot,  you  are  my  very  own."  Here  they  all 
laughed  heartily,  Waldovere  saying:  "No  artist  ever 
had  so  good  a  subject  for  a  telling  picture." 

Before  the  gentlemen  arose  from  the  table,  Mrs. 
Murdstone  said  she  would  like  to  be  put  on  the  build 
ing  committee,  and  as  men  couldn't  work  without  eat- 


THE   MAIDEN'S   SACRED  BOWER.  117 

ing,  she  would  do  the  cooking  for  them  if  Mr.  Wal- 
dovere  would  promise  to  buy  the  lumber  for  the  school- 
house,  which  would  be  used  for  church  services  on 
Sundays: 

"  Father  has  about  decided  to  give  a  five-acre  lot 
where  the  broad-spreading  oak  trees  make  the  place 
like  a  garden,  and  a  part  of  the  ground  could  be  laid 
out  for  a  cemetery." 

Mr.  Murdstone  said,  to  himself:  "It  seems  like  sac 
rilege  to  use  the  same  building  for  church  and  school." 

And  Mr.  Waldovere,  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his 
eye,  remarked:  "  There  are  two  of  us  against  one,  and 
if  your  scruples  are  so  nice,  you  need  not  preach  in  the 
school-house;  then  it  will  not  be  desecrated,"  and  with 
a  hearty  laugh,  he  won  his  point. 

They  walked  to  the  building  site,  and  decided  be 
tween  themselves  where  the  lumber  should  be  unloaded. 
Within  less  than  six  weeks  a  very  substantial,  commo 
dious  building  was  completed.  The  enterprise  of  the 
California  gold  mines  had  spread  to  the  Territory  of 
Oregon,  and  made  it  possible  to  put  up  a  building  made 
of  lumber,  with  doors  and  windows,  as  early  as  the  fall 
of '49. 

It  was  the  middle  of  October,  and  no  teacher  had 
yet  been  found.  An  Oregon  mist  was  settling  over 
the  land, — something  like  a  London  fog, — but  the  peo 
ple  were  paying  no  more  attention  to  it  than  the  Lon 
doners  do  to  their  togs;  indeed,  every  avocation  was 
being  pushed  with  greater  vigor,  for  these  rains,  or  fine 
mists,  were  only  a  precursor  of  the  long  winter  season 
that  would  soon  set  in  "in  dead  earnest,"  as  those 
pioneers  used  to  say. 

This  bustle  and  increased  activity  made  things  seem 
very  prosperous,  and  gave  a  cheerful,  instead  of  a  de 
pressing  influence,  as  one,  far  away,  reading  an  ac 
count  of  those  Oregon  mists,  might  imagine. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  was  deep  in  the  mysteries  of  the 
finishing  touches  of  the  rinsing,  and  wringing,  rubbing 
and  starching  of  the  Monday's  wash.  No  French 


118  THE   HEROINE   OF  '49. 

laundry  ever  did  better  work,  and  this  laundry  work 
was  done  every  week  in  the  family,  rain  or  shine. 
Mrs.  Murdstone  told  her  sons  that,  as  manners  made 
the  difference  between  a  gentleman  and  clown,  so 
starch  marks  the  well-bred  from  the  common  herd. 
But  here  we  have  no  common  herd,  but  starch,  just 
the  same,  is  very  refining,  and  since  it  is  so  cheap,  and 
life  would  be  so  drear  without  it,  we  will  just  use  it 
freely,  Jean."  Another  one  of  her  practical  home 
sayings  was :  "  While  we  are  about  it,  we  will  cook 
dinner  enough  for  anyone  who  may  happen  in,"  and  it 
seemed  that  the  people  sixty  miles  away  would  scent 
her  dinners,  for  how  they  did  "happen"  along  just 
before  or  just  after  dinner  !  To-day,  the  spare-rib  and 
backbone  of  a  fat  pig  had  been  served  for  dinner,  the 
great  heaping  platter  full  had  been  set  away,  while  a 
pile  of  nicely  browned  loaves  from  the  Saturday's  bak 
ing  lay  on  the  same  shelf;  near  it,  stood  a  roll  of 
creamy  butter.  The  dishes  were  piled  in  a  big  pan  on 
the  table,  waiting  to  be  washed,  when  a  young  man 
flung  a  long  shadow  on  tne  floor,  for  the  sun  had  shone 
out  "brightly  that  afternoon.  Mrs.  Murdstone  wiped 
her  hands  from  the  white  foam,  stepped  in  to  meet  the 
shadow,  bowed  gracefully,  and  asked  the  young  man  to 
be  seated.  He  was  an  intelligent  looking  young  fellow  of 
about  twenty,  with  the  tenderest  down  on  his  chin  and 
upper  lip,  the  mildest  blue  eyes,  his  teeth  protruding 
when  he  smiled.  He  did  not  sit,  but  gave  his  hand  to 
the  matronly  woman  before  him.  Her  warm  grasp 
given  him  made  them  friends.  In  a  clear,  manly  voice, 
he  said :  "  I  am  too  hungry  to  sit,  Mrs.  Murdstone.  I 
have  heard  your  name  so  often  since  I  came  into  the 
neighborhood,  that  you  seem  like  an  acquaintance." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  know  you,  I  am  sure,  and  since 
you  are  so  hungry,  you  will  not  be  dainty.  The  best 
man  to  feed  is  the  man  with  an  appetite,  and  as  you 
cannot  sit,  just  stand  in  front  of  my  commissary  stores 
and  help  yourself  without  ceremony,  for  my  time  is  in 
great  demand  for  the  next  hour,  after  which  I  shall  be 


MAIDEN'S   SACRED   BOWER.  119 

at  leisure  arid  happy  to  entertain  you.''  And  she  opened 
wide  her  cupboard  doors,  stepped  out  on  the  open 
porch  where  her  suds  were  awaiting  her,  and  soon  had 
the  whole  back  yard,  clear  to  the  spring,  lined  with 
snowy  linen. 

The  young  man  had  done  justice  to  the  eatables  he 
found  in  such  generous  quantity.  He  said  he  drank 
out  of  the  five-quart  milk-pan,  cream  and  all.  Poor 
fellow,  young  as  he  was,  he  had  graduated  from  a  law 
school  in  Iowa,  and  came  out  here  to  make  a  start  in 
the  world.  Had  crossed  the  plains  with  mule  teams, 
arriving  in  the  valley  the  last  of  August.  He  had 
intended  to  push  right  on  to  the  gold  diggings,  but  had 
plunged  into  the  deep  snow  in  the  Rogue  River  moun 
tain  ranges,  lying  between  Oregon  and  California;  had 
subsisted  on  mule-meat  for  six  days  ;  had  retraced  his 
steps,  and  we  find  him  in  Mrs.  Murdstone's  larder, 
surrounding  himself  with  plenty.  His  gold  fever,  he 
thought,  had  somewhat  subsided,  and  he  would  be  glad 
to  teach  the  children  in  the  new  school-house  for  his 
board  during  the  winter.  But  the  old  pioneers  gave 
him  a  fair  salary  the  first  winter,  and  increased  it  and 
the  number  of  children  every  year  for  five  years.  Then 
he  married  one  of  the  noblest  girls  in  the  hills,  not 
especially  noted  for  her  great  beauty,  but  for  her  good 
ness.  He  won  prominence  as  a  lawyer  in  the  State, 
and  was  sent  as  a  representative  to  Congress  for  two 
consecutive  terms,  and  was  the  father  of  a  large  and 
prosperous  family  of  sons,  his  own  fac-similes,  with  the 
same  prominent  teeth  and  generous  smile. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

MARRYING  FOR  LAND. 

With  the  virgin  earth  about  them,  with  brave  hearts 
and  strong  hands  to  carve  out  their  fortunes  in  a  new 
world,  was  it  possible  for  these  families  to  be  other 
than  hopeful  and  happy  ?  And  yet  the  worm  will  eat 
into  the  heart  of  the  fairest  rosebud,  the  brightest 
hopes  vanish. 

Mr.  Miser  returned,  made  an  offer  to  Mrs.  Murd- 
stone  for  her  daughter's  hand  in  marriage,  pressed  his 
suit  so  fair  and  earnestly  that  Mrs.  Murdstone  won 
dered  how  she  could  have  had  a  suspicion  that  he  was 
not  the  soul  of  honor.  She  told  Mr.  Miser  that  if  he 
could  gain  her  daughter's  consent,  and  wait  two  years 
for  Jean,  she  would  give  him  her  consent.  Mr.  Miser 
was  as  timid  and  modest  an  accepted  lover  as  a  mother 
could  desire,  and  at  that  interview,  coincided  with 
every  wish  the  anxious  mother  could  express;  he 
showed  wisdom  in  requiring  Mrs.  Murdstone  to  allow 
him  sufficient  time  to  make  some  impression  on  Jean's 
good-will,  before  she  became  aware  of  his  intention  of 
making  her  his  wife,  and  with  the  utmost  skill  removed 
every  trace  of  doubt  from  the  mind  of  Mrs.  Murd 
stone  of  his  base  motive  of  marrying  Jean  for  the  sake 
of  securing  his  land,  by  assuring  Mrs.  Murdstone  that 
he  had  been  possessed  of  a  deep  and  undying  passion 
for  her  lovely  daughter  since  the  first  day  he  saw  her 
—  she  was  so  unlike  any  other  girl.  He  had  gone  to 
the  mountains  to  try  to  master  this  all-absorbing 
passion,  but  it  had  mastered  him.  He  came  again, 
and  in  his  manly,  frank  way  had  determined  to  seek 
Mrs.  Murdstone,  and  gain  her  consent  to  win  the  fair 
girl  if  possible.  Oh,  yes,  he  could  wait  five  years,  or 


MARRYING    FOR    LAND.  121 

ten,  if  at  the  end  he  was  sure  to  win  his  prize.  Mrs. 
Murdstone  admired  the  ardent  style  of  the  man's 
pleading,  but  could  not  reconcile  her  conscience  to 
acquiescing  in  Jean's  marriage  at  this  tender  age;  she 
soothed  her  troubled  fears,  nevertheless,  by  thinking 
"  two  years  is  some  time.  Jean  will  be  sixteen,  and 
she  may  refuse  the  man.  Why  should  I  feel  so  badly. 
After  all,  something  may  occur  to  interfere."  And  thus 
she  allowed  herself  to  be  deluded,  and  so  drifted  down 
the  smooth  stream  of  time. 

Now  that  the  adroit  Mr.  Miser  had  removed  all 
resistance,  with  his  strong  will,  coupled  with  Mr. 
Murdstone's,  they  had  swept  away  every  objection,  and 
instead  of  waiting  two  years,  in  less  than  two  months, 
Jean  Ames  was  Mrs.  Miser. 

Now,  any  girl  of  fourteen  years,  who  was  told  to  take 
her  books,  tie  on  her  bonnet  and  go  to  school,  would 
be  most  likely  to  do  as  she  was  bid;  and  so,  when  they 
bade  Jean  to  be  measured  for  her  wedding  gown,  she 
said,  "A  new  dress  in  this  country  is  indeed  a  rare  and 
lovely  thing,  but  as  for  marrying  that  fellow,  I  don't 
think  I  ever  will.  I  want  to  go  to  school.  I  don't 
want  to  be  married  so  young.  Other  girls  do  not,  and 
I  shan't!"  she  protested  poutingly. 

Cursica  Miser  bought  a  little  chestmit  pony,  and 
called  it  Jean's  pony.  He  asked  her  to  ride  out  with 
him.  Jean  took  a  brisk  canter,  and  skimmed  over  the 
ground  with  as  much  ease  as  a  bird  sails  through  the 
air,  and  was  home  with  her  mother  in  half  an  hour. 
Mr.  Miser  beamed  graciously  upon  her  as  he  lifted  her 
from  the  saddle,  but  not  a  word  of  love  or  marriage 
passed  his  lips.  If  there  had,  Jean  would  never  have 
gone  to  ride  again.  Mr.  Murdstone  eagerly  pointed  out 
the  advantages  of  such  a  marriage.  She  was  the  most 
fortunate  girl  in  the  whole  country  to  be  sought  by  a 
man  of  such  wealth.  "  He  is  some  years  your  senior, 
to  bo  sure, but  the  wife  grows  older  so  much  faster  than 
the  husband,  that  in  point  of  fact  your  ages  will  be 
equal  ten  years  hence."  This  cunning  reasoning  almost 
prevented  the  prospective  marriage,  for  Jean  argued, 


122  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

"  Why  should  I  enter  upon  an  arrangement  of  affairs 
whereby  I  shall  grow  old  so  fast  ?"  and  saying  pettishly, 
"  I  shall  not  do  it!"  walked  oat  of  the  room  with  a  step 
light  and  free  as  the  bounding  deer  on  the  mountain 
side,  but  with  eye  alert  and  head  ereot,  very  much  as 
the  deer  that  has  heard  the  hunter's  tramp  or  the 
hounds'  yelp.  What  to  do  she  did  not  know.  Since 
her  earliest  recollection,  every  member  of  her  family, 
when  perplexed,  sought  refuge  in  prayer.  Jean  spent 
hours  in  her  leafy  bower,  on  her  knees,  asking  God  to 
direct  her,  and  above  all  to  give  her  wisdom  to  do  right. 
"  I  am  such  a  helpless  child,"  she  pleaded;  "  no  father, 
no  brother  near,  and  my  poor  mother  seems  dazed  and 
bewildered.  Oh,  God,  spare  me  this  fate !  I  want  to 
go  to  school.  I  want  an  education  like  other  girls. 
My  soul  is  in  rebellion.  Oh,  God,  give  me  peace,  and 
spare  me  this  step  in  the  dark !  I  know  not  what  I  fear. 
I  know  not  why  I  so  abhor  this  whole  hateful  affair 
from  beginning  to  end." 

If  Jean  had  opened  her  heart  to  her  mother,  as  she 
did  silently  to  God  in  her  prayer,  it  would  have  aroused 
her  to  action,  and  the  poor  child  would  have  been  saved. 
Jean  thought  she  could  not  add  trouble  to  her  mother's 
already  overflowing  cup  of  bitterness,  and  silently,  and 
somewhat  heedlessly,  glided  on  until  the  evil  day  set 
for  the  marriage  arrived. 

What  could  a  child  of  fourteen  know  of  the  horrors 
of  an  unhappy  mariage?  The  few  guests,  as  they  arrived, 
kissed  her  a  merry  good  morning,  saying  she  was  a  lucky 
girl,  but  her  mother's  pale  face  bore  traces  of  tears7  and 
the  dear  old  minister,  gray-haired,  tender-hearted  and 
good,  wiped  a  tear  from  his  eyes  as  he  warmly  pressed 
her  hand.  This  alarmed  Jean.  She  knew  he  loved 
her.  She  knew  he  was  good  and  had  more  knowledge 
of  what  she  was  doing  than  she  had.  She  was  ap 
prehensive,  and  asked  Mrs.  Morton,  one  of  the  elder 
ly  ladies,  to  walk  with  her  to  pick  some  flowers. 
They  passed  down  the  spring  path  that  led  to  Jean's 
bower.  Jean  told  her  of  the  secluded  spot,  and  said 
she  had  an  intense  longing  to  hide  there  until  the  day 


MARRYING    FOR    LAND.  123 

was  passed.  The  woman  looked  surprised  and  grieved, 
but  said :  "  My  poor  child,  does  your  mother  know  how 
you  feel?"  Jean,  pressing  the  grass  with  her  dainty 
slipper,  said:  "No  one  knows  but  God." 

* '  My  child,  your  friends  are  older  than  you.  "We  all 
have  to  trust  our  friends  and  family  for  our  happi 
ness.  If  I  were  you  I  would  go  on  with  the  affair 
now  as  everything  is  in  readiness.  Every  woman  feels 
something  as  you  do,  at  the  last  moment." 

Jean's  eyes  dilated  with  rage,  as  she  grew  indignant 
at  her  hemmed-in  condition. 

"  If  I  were  a  woman  I  would  know  my  own  mind 
and  act  it,"  and  two  great  tears  slid  out  from  under 
her  silken  lashes,  and  trickled  down  her  velvet  cheek, 
in  sympathy  as  much  for  all  womankind  who  go  trem 
bling  to  their  marriage  vows,  as  in  pity  for  herself. 
"Why  should  there  be  a  chance  for  my  being  un 
happy  in  married  life,  if  all  they  have  told  me  be  true  ?" 
she  queried.  "Now,  there  is  the  minister,  and  my 
mother,  the  only  people  here  who  care  for  me  at  all, 
and  they  are  both  crying.  I  have  a  mind  to  run  for 
my  freedom,  as  the  negroes  do  down  south." 

"My  child,"  said  Mrs.  Morton,  "you  must  trust 
your  friends  as  older  girls  do;  your  mother,  the  minis 
ter,  and  all  the  people  assembled  at  the  house,  have 
talked  the  matter  over  and  over  again.  It  is  their 
opinion,  evidently,  that  you  are  doing  the  best  possi 
ble  thing  for  yourself." 

"Why  is  my  mother  so  reluctant  in  giving  her  con 
sent?  Mr.  Murdstone  and  Mr.  Miser  are  the  only 
ones  eager  for  the  union.  If  I  should  speak  the  truth 
to  you  I  should  say  that  neither  of  them  ever  intend 
to  fulfill  the  contract  they  have  made  with  my  mother 
to  gain  her  consent  to  this  marriage.  It  is  this,  that 
I  shall  remain  with  her  until  I  am  seventeen;  that 
she  shall  have  a  hired  girl  to  do  the  work  in  my  place, 
and  Mr.  Miser  will  pay  the  girl's  wages;  but  when 
we  do  go  to  housekeeping,  I  shall  always  be  provided 
with  hired  help,  and  that  I  shall  not  be  subject  to 
child-bearing  until  I'm  twenty -five  years  of  age.  That, 


124 


THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 


as  Mr.  Miser  is  abundantly  able,  he  will  always  pro 
vide  me  with  every  comfort  of  life,  and  every  wish, 
even  for  luxuries,  shall  be  gratified.  That  sounds  fine 
on  paper,  does  it  not?  Let  me  tell  you,  when  Mr. 
Miser  first  asked  my  mother  to  consent  to  our  engage 
ment  he  promised  her  faithfully  that  he  would  not 
ask  that  we  be  married  before  two  years,  because  I 
am  so  young;  and  here  he  comes  with  an  excuse  that 
the  government  has  made  a  land  law  that  he  did  not 
know  anything  about  at  the  time  he  asked  for  my 
hand;  that  every  man  shall  be  married  or  lose  his 
half-section.  Now,  I  want  to  remain  a  girl  until  I 
am  a  woman,  and  then  marry  a  man,  and  not  land, 
I  have  told  them  all  this." 

"But  my  dear,  what  a  scandal  you  would  creatn! 
Come,  they  are  calling  us  now."  Jean  turned  and 
walked  slowly  back  to  find  the  guests  awaiting  her. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  GIEL-CHILD. 

Mr.  Miser  was  an  odd-looking  man  in  his  every  day 
suit.  But  if  anyone  could  have  seen  him  in  his  wed 
ding  gear  without  smiling,  they  could  do  better  than 
Jean  did.  There  could  be  nothing  wrong  in  the  bride's 
smiling  on  the  bridegroom,  so  the  company  thought, 
and  the  groom  himself  was  pleased  to  see  Jean  looking 
so  charmingly  sweet. 

Now,  Jean  herself  was  dressed  like  a  matron  of 
thirty,  but  this  only  enhanced  her  girlish  appearance. 
It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  worn  a  long  dress, 
which  made  her  look  taller  and  more  womanly.  But 
she  could  not  walk  with  that  ease  and  grace  that  she 
did  in  her  short  dresses.  It  was  a  brown  alpaca, 
and  the  only  piece  of  dress-goods  to  be  found  in  the 
only  dry-goods  store  in  town. 

There  was  absolutely  no  cloth  in  the  store  to 
make  a  suit  for  Mr.  Cursica  Miser,  but  after  much 
perplexity,  one  of  his  bachelor  friends  sold  him  a 

Eiece  of  fine  broadcloth  that  he  had  brought  with 
im  from  the  states.  There  was  just  enough  in  the 
piece  to  make  himself  a  pair  of  pants.  He  was  a  very 
small  man,  and  Mr.  Miser  much  taller.  But  the  tailor, 
hearing  of  the  trials  of  the  would-be  bridegroom, 
promised  to  try  to  piece  the  cloth  at  both  ends,  and  so, 
by  dint  of  stretching,  piecing,  and  Mr.  Miser's 
"  sorootching "  a  little,  he  thought  it  might  be  made 
to  do  duty  as  a  pair  of  pants  for  a  wedding  suit.  As 
Jean  entered,  Mr.  Miser  was  standing  in  the  middle  of 
the  floor  talking  to  the  minister,  his  lower  limbs  en 
cased  in  the  shiny  broad-cloth.  He  was  "  scrootching" 
a  little,  as  the  man  of  art  in  constructing  clothes  had 


126  THE    HEROINE    OP  '49. 

directed  him  to  do.  But,  alas !  for  all  the  contracting 
he  could  do,  the  pants  were  determined  to  creep  up 
above  his  shoe  tops,  and  drop  a  little  below  his  vest  at 
the  waist,  so  the  white  shirt  looked  like  a  sash  peeping 
out  between  his  upper  and  lower  garments.  If  the 
coat  had  been  big  enough,  Mr.  Miser  could  have  con 
cealed  this  defect  by  buttoning  one  or  two  buttons  at 
the  waist. 

Alas !  for  obstacles  over  which  helpless  man  cannot  tri 
umphantly  climb.  The  coat  and  vest  in  which  Mr.  Miser 
had  decided  to  appear  on  his  wedding  day,  had 
lain  in  his  trunk  since  he  was  a  young  man  of  nineteen. 
He  was  now  a  man,  with  heavy  beard,  a  sharp  sprink 
ling  of  gray  creeping  into  his  side-whiskers.  A  man's 
form  changes  somewhat  in  all  those  years,  though  he 
may  not  have  grown  much  stouter,  and  the  coat  that 
might  have  looked  trim  at  nineteen,  now  utterly  re 
fused  to  make  anything  else  of  the  man  than  a  carica 
ture.  His  shoulders  being  thicker,  required  more 
cloth  to  cover  them,  and  this  brought  the  seams  of 
the  waist  high  up  under  the  shoulders,  which  made 
the  coat-tail  slightly  elevated  at  the  back.  The  front 
skirts  tilted  back  to  the  side  pockets  of  the  pants, 
and  left  the  expose  of  the  quarrel  between  his  pants 
and  vest  very  prominent  indeed,  and  as  there  was  not 
a  mirror  large  enough  at  that  time  in  all  Oregon,  in 
which  to  see  himself  at  full  length,  it  was  not  at  all 
probable  that  Mr.  Miser  could  know  what  a  grotesque 
figure  he  presented.  Being  a  vain  man,  he  would  not 
have  appeared  before  that  company  in  that  outfit  for 
all  the  land  in  Oregon  had  he  known  just  how  he 
looked.  He  was,  however,  conscious  of  some  defects 
in  h^s  attire,  but  when  Jean  appeared,  and  smilingly 
endured  the  sacrifice  made  for  her  by  this  ignorant 
and  misguided  people,  he  was  seemingly  complacent. 
How  was  it  possible  for  a  bible-reading,  God-fear 
ing,  Christian,  civilized  people  to  induce  a  child  to 
enter  the  mystic  horrors  of  marriage  rites,  that  were 
so  atrocious  ?  It  was  possible  at  the  time  of  which 
we  write.  If  an  unprotected  family,  on  the  extreme 


But  if  anyone  could  have  seen  him  in  his  wedding  gear,  without 
smiling,  they  could  do  better  than  Jean  did. 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  GIRL-CHILD.         127 

frontier,  were  shot  and  tomahawked,  little  children's 
brains  dashed  out  against  the  stones,  as,  alas!  some 
times  happened  in  those  days,  everybody  could  pale 
with  horror  at  the  savage  deed,  but  they  could  see 
this  innocent,  unsuspecting  child  bound  by  the  most 
galling  chains  of  a  sacred  contract  to  a  life  instinct 
with  torture,  every  day  equal  to  any  ever  perpe 
trated  by  the  savages;  not  a  death,  with  its  quick 
still  peace,  but  life,  quivering  with  new  horror 
and  increasing  torture  each  day.  This  is  not  the  sav 
age  blow  of  revenge,  but  our  highest,  grandest,  noblest 
Christian  civilization,  dealing  with  the  key-note  to  the 
bulwark  of  all  there  is  in  life,  the  holy  of  all  holies, 
the  family  tie.  The  pure  girl  of  fourteen,  bound  to 
the  sensualist  of  forty-five,  in  that  closest  earthly  tie, 
a  marriage.  Honest,  cultured,  thinking  human  beings 
could  make  laws  to  enable  designing  men  to  entrap  a 
child  into  such  a  snare.  Laws  that  intelligent  people 
are  asked  to  obey  should  be  the  culmination  of  per 
fection  when  worked  out  in  the  great  sum  of  life,  in 
stead  of  developing  all  the  damning  evil  that  fiends  in 
hell  would  pale  to  enforce.  We  are  convinced,  and 
think  you  will  be,  who  follow  us,  that  there  were  few 
girls  ever  born  who  could  stem  the  current  of  adverse 
fate,  beat  back  the  scum  of  crime,  stay  the  fiery  ordeal, 
as  did  our  brave  and  dauntless  Jean,  and,  like  the 
Hebrew  children,  come  out  without  the  smell  of  fire 
upon  her  garments.  Let  humanity  forever  blush 
that  could  formulate  circumstances  that  would  make 
life,  like  the  one  our  pen  tries,  but  will  forever 
fail  to  portray.  If  a  murder  is  committed  before 
our  eyes  and  we  only  smile,  we  give  aid  and  sanc 
tion  to  the  murderer,  we  abet  the  crime.  There 
are  thousands  of  crimes  perpetrated  every  day  upon 
our  fellows  that  are  worse  than  taking  their  lives, 
and  yet,  we  are  so  stupid  of  the  results  of  the  many 
ultimate  ramifications  of  these  crimes,  that  we  lend  no 
voice  nor  force  against  them.  How  long,  oh,  Lord,  will 
poor  humanity  endure  its  wrongs,  and  not  even  cry  out 
for  redress?  —  see  its  fellows  fall  daily,  mowed  down 

9  * 


128  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

like  the  tender  grass,  and  still  remain  dumb  as 
the  beasts  of  the  field? — not  knowing  every  wrong 
they  see  committed,  and  lend  no  hand  to  relieve, 
raise  no  voice  of  protest,  makes  them  aiders  and  ac 
cessories  to  the  crimes;  not  even  comprehending 
that  the  passive  criminal  is  almost  equal  to  the  active 
one  ?  Our  pen  should  be  sharp  to  prick  the  consciences 
of  our  fellows,  so  that  other  generations  may  have 
better  conditions  for  the  coming  race  than  those  that 
former  days  made  for  our  heroine.  It  is  time  we  had 
heroes  and  heroines  in  the  strife,  and  not  the  patient 
dull-eyed  cattle  of  the  past  that  stolidly  endured. 

When  Mrs.  Murdstone  found  that  she  had  made  so 
irretrievable  a  mistake  in  assenting  to  this  ill-assorted 
union — and  every  day  made  it  more  apparent — she  was 
utterly  prostrated  with  grief,  and  lay  upon  her  bed  for 
months,  racked  with  the  terrible  pain  of  remorse.  It 
came  at  the  most  critical  period  of  a  woman's  life,  when 
she  hesitates,  starts,  fears  and  has  no  strength  of  resist 
ance,  as  she  had  only  a  few  years  before.  She  often 
found  herself  sitting  up  in  bed  crying  and  wringing  her 
hands  in  pitiable  agony,  trying  in  her  sleep  to  bring 
Jean  back  to  her  again.  It  was  the  climacteric  period 
with  her.  If  she,  or  anybody  about  her,  had  under 
stood  her  physical  condition,  all  this  frightful  sickness 
and  lamentable  anguish  could  have  been  avoided.  She 
would  have  said,  "I  require  my  daughter's  compan 
ionship  and  she  mine,  until  she  is  a  woman  grown. 
She  shall  marry  no  one  until  she  is  a  fully  matured 
woman,  when  she  herself  shall  select  her  choice.  I 
shall  have  nothing,  absolutely  nothing,  to  do  with  it." 
Murdstone  and  Miser  would  have  looked  elsewhere  for 
a  victim.  If  our  laws  were  not  weak,  and  not  con 
structed  by  wholly  incapable  men,  whose  sensual  lives 
have  long  since  denuded  their  brains  of  the  acumen  that 
they  otherwise  would  have  possessed,  our  laws,  would, 
of  a  surety,  have  strength  enough  in  them  to  protect 
our  girl-children  from  the  sensual  rapacity  of  men. 
The  laws  made  for  us  by  our  wise  brothers,  that 
thrust  marriage  upon  our  child-girls,  have  worked  a  great- 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  GIRL-CHILD.         129 

er  evil  to  the  race  than  all  the  other  crimes  the  world  has 
ever  committed.  Our  law-makers  and  physicians  are 
the  greatest  criminals  in  making  and  sanctioning  these 
laws.  Then  come  the  long-robed  priests;  but  they 
are  so  well  versed  in  the  needs  of  the  soul,  and  so  little 
conversant  with  the  requirements  of  the  body,  that 
they  are  to  be  excused  somewhat.  Our  writers,  brain 
less,  superficial  thinkers — the  parents  and  stupid  teach 
ers  of  the  race — such  idiots !  But  the  march  of  time 
will  sweep  them  all  out  of  our  way  like  the  flood-tide  of 
a  mighty  river  that  carries  forth  the  debris  and  dashes 
it  to  one  side,  here  and  there  along  its  banks,  covered 
with  mud  and  scum  and  old  dead  leaves,  rubbish  of  the 
past.  .  Why  do  we  punish  evil-doers  ?  Because  they 
are  doing  harm  to  persons  or  property,  which  it  is  our 
business  to  protect.  But  we  are  always  doing  our  pun 
ishing  and  protecting  at  the  wrong  end  of  society.  We 
go  among  the  lower  classes,  when  we  should  go  to  the 
highest,  where  the  power  to  do  evil  is  the  strongest. 

What  is  the  burning  of  an  old  barn,  compared  with 
spoiling  the  chances  of  a  woman's  life,  and  making  it 
possible  for  her  to  produce  a  dozen  or  fifteen  children, 
immature,  half  made  up,  imbecile,  deformed,  diseased, 
in  every  way  robbed  of  what  they  have  a  right  to — of 
health  and  strength  and  vigorous  life?  We  all  know 
that  a  child  subject  to  the  perils  of  maternity  is  not 
only  destroying  her  own  life,  but  making  it  utterly 
impossible  for  her  to  do  else  than  produce  feeble  issue. 
If  it  is  a  crime  to  rob  a  child  of  half  its  existence,  and 
make  the  half  you  do  impart  to  it  a  weak,  feeble 
one,  then  how  much  more  a  crime  is  it  to  rob  a  whole 
family  ?  And  as  families  produce  nations,  then  what 
is  it  to  rob  a  nation  of  its  right  to  all  of  life  ? 

It  is  a  million  times  worse  crime  to  give  a  puny  ex 
istence  to  a  human  being  than  to  take  a  life.  People 
who  are  born  have  a  right  to  a  strong,  robust,  full  life 
of  healthful  vigor,  that  every  breath  may  make  exist 
ence  an  ecstacy.  If  a  man  who  kills  another  deserves 
punishment  by  death,  what  dp  these  people  deserve 


130  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

who  rob  the  nation  of  its  life  ? — these  perpetrators,  the 
law-makers,  and  we,  their  aiders  and  abettors  in  the 
crime,  who  look  on  complacently  and  smile?  Virtue 
has  its  own  reward.  It  is  a  pity  this  crime  could  not 
recoil  upon  the  heads  of  the  offenders  with  a  thousand 
times  greater  rigor  than  it  does  on  the  innocent  victims, 
our  young  girls.  It  is  useless  to  tell  an  unthinking 
boy  of  ten  years,  that  to  take  nothing  from  nothing, 
nothing  remains.  A  child-girl,  herself  not  matured, 
cannot  produce  mature  offspring.  Then  why  allow  a 
marriage  contract  to  cover  this  premature  period  of  a 
girl's  life,  that  she  may  be  married  at  twelve  ?  All 
laws  constructed  to  govern  and  control  the  interests  of 
women,  and  especially  of  girls,  prove  that  their  con 
structors  are  uneducated  simpletons,  devoid  of  an 
atom  of  honor,  and  ought  to  be  called  upon  to  step 
down  and  out,  and  let  somebody  wise  enough,  unaided 
by  a  suggestion  from  women,  to  legislate  for  us,  and 
tell  us  what  other  element  is  more  essential  for  the 
well-being  of  the  nation  than  our  motherhood;  but  let 
them  be  honest  enough  to  fix  the  adult  age  of  the  girl 
and  boy  at  exactly  the  same  period,  and  not  pretend  to 
intelligent  physiologists  that  girls  mature  sooner  than 
boys.  If  this  were  true,  women  would  die  sooner,  and 
every  one  knows  there  are  more  centenarians  among 
women  than  men.  There  is  no  difference  in  the  cutting 
and  shedding  of  the  teeth  of  boy-babies  and  girl-babies. 
If  girls  grew  faster  than  boys  they  would  not  require 
so  many  months  of  gestation. 

Out  of  what  false  reasoning  did  this  absurd  lie  fasten 
its  fangs  upon  poor  humanity  ?  It  came  from  out  the 
lowest,  basest  passions  of  man's  nature,  and  that  and 
that  alone  keeps  it  still  a  dominant  power.  It  is  the 
hot  blast  of  beastliness  that  makes  men  legislate  in 
this  unjust  manner  for  women.  Beastliness,  inasmuch 
as  it  is  without  reason.  In  any  other  sense  it  is  a 
libel  on  the  beast,  since  their  animalism  is  a  clean 
record  when  compared  with  that  of  man.  Do  women 
know  that  to  endure  all  this  wrong  in  silence  makes 
them  vile  inde-  •-  *>*.»j.tely  baser  than  the  men  who 


THE  MAR1TAGB   OF  THE  GIRL-CHILD.         131 

impose  these  crimes  upon  them,  since  they  are  the 
chosen  handmaids  of  God  to  the  highest  and  holiest 
mission  on  earth,  that  of  propagating  the  species,  the 
architects  and  builders  of  His  people,  of  the  world, 
a  responsible  position  too  holy  to  be  injured  ? 
Women  should  not  submit  to  wrong  themselves  and 
their  children  yet  unborn.  But  the  dawn  when  women 
will  awaken  to  action  is  glowing  with  roseate  hue.  The 
cold,  gray  dull  clouds  are  passed.  Our  public  schools, 
with  their  millions  of  growing  girls,  equally  educated 
with  our  boys,  will  do  the  work  in  a  few  years  of  en 
lightening  our  women  to  their  true  status  in  life. 
Education  will  make  them  grand,  true,  brave  women. 
They  will  not  ask  for  their  rights;  why  should  they  ? 
They  will  take  up  their  duties  and  act  their  rights. 
They  will  make  their  own  laws  to  govern  their  own  per 
sons  and  property.  Then  the  nation  will  begin  to  grow, 
and  drop  its  shackles.  We  shall  be  a  strong,  healthy, 
noble  race,  not  cursed  by  disease,  nor  poverty,  nor 
premature  death.  We  shall  be  so  full  of  happiness  that 
there  will  be  no  room  for  disease  in  or  about  us.  Glori 
ous,  is  it  not  to  contemplate  ?  The  grand  time  coming 
for  us  all — all  happy,  and  prosperous  I 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

SAVING   HER   MOTHER'S  LIFE. 

Jean's  mother  had  been  sick  two  weeks.  Mr.  Cor 
sica  Miser  had  been  relegated  to  the  loft  with  the  boys, 
to  spend  his  honeymoon  in  his  same  old-bachelor  bed, 
all  alone.  The  house  had  from  three  to  four  neighbor 
women  in  it,  day  and  night.  It  was  the  first  case  of 
serious  illness  that  had  occurred  in  the  neighborhood, 
and  caused  general  alarm.  There  came  at  this  time  a 
terrible  rain-storm.  All  the  streams,  rivers,  creeks  and 
sloughs  were  flooded.  It  was  impossible  for  the  Mission 
doctor  to  get  to  Mrs.  Murdstone,  or  for  anyone  to  reach 
him  for  advice.  Roads  and  bridges  had  not  material 
ized;  they  were  as  yet  the  dreams  of  the  future.  There 
was,  however,  a  simple-minded  old  nurse,  that  gave 
herb  teas  to  the  sick,  who  came  with  a  long  bag  filled 
with  packages  of  dry  herbs  hanging  on  her  arm.  Jean 
hated  her  the  moment  she  saw  her,  and  was  watchful 
of  her  movements  about  her  mother.  She  was  a 
patient,  meek-faced  woman,  who  looked  as  though  to 
be  meek,  enduring  and  long-suffering  was  all  there  was 
to  do  in  the  world.  But  out  of  this  lack  of  resistance 
grew  Jean's  strong  advantage,  as  she  set  the  old  lady 
aside  and  filled  the  position  of  doctor  and  nurse  at  her 
mother's  bedside. 

Jean,  though  a  child,  was  a  student  of  nature.  On 
the  plains,  the  year  before,  she  had,  in  her  method, 
dissected  every  animal  that  came  into  camp,  though 
not  very  scientifically,  it  is  true.  She  had  taken  fibers 
from  the  great  bundle  of  sheaths  that  form  the  muscles 
of  the  buffalo  bull's  neck,  and  the  fine  fibers  of  the 
antelope's  ham,  and  called  her  mother's  attention  to 


SAVING  HER  MOTHER'S  LIFE.  133 

the  fact  that  there  were  people  in  the  company  who 
were  made  of  fine  fiber  like  that  of  the  antelope,  and 
those  composed  of  coarser  structure  like  the  buffalo's 
neck.  The  mother  had  said: 

"  My  child,  how  wonderful  your  turn  of  mind  is.  j 
should  never  have  thought  of  such  a  thing,  and  yet  it 
seems  true  enough,  and  this  is  quite  a  demonstration." 

If  she  had  known  that  the  knowledge  the  girl  was 
gaining  in  her  studies  would  have  enabled  her  to  set 
aside  ignorant  authority  and  save  her  life,  it  would 
have  seemed  to  Mrs.  Murdstone  still  more  astonishing. 
Sometimes,  Jean  had  hours  to  give  to  these  critical 
examinations  of  the  structure  of  animals,  sometimes 
only  moments.  She  would  take  the  hunter's  knife  and 
open  the  intestines,  closely  scanning  the  difference  be 
tween  the  great  and  the  small,  the  strong  and  the 
weak.  Sometimes,  she  was  alone  with  the  animal  in 
the  tall  grass,  searching  for  knowledge  as  for  hidden 
treasure,  but  oftener  had  a  gaping  crowd  about  her. 
Nothing  hindered  her,  however,  from  knowing  what 
she  wished  to  learn.  The  strong  fibers  she  found  in 
the  wings  of  the  birds  that  fly  long  distances  gave  her 
much  food  for  thought. 

It  was  evening  when  the  great  crisis  came.  The 
tallow  candles  were  lighted,  and  gave  to  the  room  such 
a  dim  weird  glow  that  the  nurse  seemed  to  Jean  like 
something  supernatural,  and  drove  her  almost  to  des 
peration.  There  were  four  or  five  tin  cups  of  different 
kinds  of  herb  tea  sitting  in  a  row  on  the  hearth,  that 
gleamed  like  evil  spirits  before  the  fire,  and  Jean  felt 
that  they  were  doinjy  her  mother  harm.  The  fire-light 
would  blaze  up  and  disclose  everything  distinctly  in 
the  room,  then  almost  die  out  again,  seeming  to  Jean 
to  say,  "Your  mother's  life  is  fast  flitting  away." 

Mrs.  Murdstone  was  lying,  white  as  a  sheet,  not  a 
particle  of  color  in  her  lips.  She  had  had  metrorrhagy 
for  days.  She  called  the  nurse  to  see  what  was  press 
ing  on  the  pelvic  muscles.  The  nurse  had  told  Jean 
she  was  too  young  for  her  to  be  about  her  mother — it 


134  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

was  immodest;  and  Jean  had  answered,  wrathfully: 
"I  shall  leave  my  mother  to  no  one."  Jean  became 
aware  of  the  intention  of  the  nurse  to  remove  the  ob 
struction.  It  was  inversion  of  the  uterus,  and  she  took 
the  nurse  by  the  shoulders  and  whirled  her  half  across 
the  room,  saying:  "Oh,  mother,  it  is  a  part  of  your 
own  person,  and  must  not  be  removed,  but  replaced." 
"Whereupon  Mrs.  Murdstone  fainted,  and  Jean  per 
formed  the  work,  and  saved  her  mother's  life,  and  of 
course  was  greatly  excited.  As  soon  as  she  could  leave 
her  mother,  going  into  the  kitchen,  she  bolted  the  door, 
and  knelt  down  with  her  head  between  the  pots  and 
kettles  on  a  bench,  and  in  that  humiliating  attitude 
took  a  vow  that  if  God  would  only  save  her  mother's 
life,  before  any  gray  hairs  should  gather  on  her  head 
she  would  know  how  to  take  care  of  women  and  not  be 
as  ignorant  as  those  she  saw  about  her.  When  she  rose 
to  her  feet  she  knew  her  mother  would  get  well.  What 
a  long,  long  time  it  did  take,  she  being  like  an  infant, 
having  to  be  fed  like  one.  Jean  was  her  nurse  for 
months. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

THE  INDIAN  HUT. 

Mr.  Miser  was  becoming  restive.  His  marriage  se 
cured  to  him  his  land  claim.  This  bauble  sufficed  to 
divert  his  mind  for  a  time,  but  like  the  average  man, 
he  soon  forgot  his  promises  made  before  marriage. 

One  morning  in  midwinter,  the  Oregon  mists,  all 
swept  away,  left  a  cloudless  sky;  the  sun,  warm  and 
clear,  shining  overhead,  but  mud  and  slush  and  water 
under  foot.  Messrs.  Murdstone  and  Miser,  leaning 
against  the  fence,  were  basking  in  the  sunshine.  Jean 
noted  the  two  men.  She  had  held  them  well  in  hand 
during  her  mother's  protracted  and  dangerous  illness, 
but  was  sure  some  mischief  was  being  planned,  yet  did 
not  dare  to  say  so  to  her  mother,  who  continued  to  be 
in  so  weak  a  condition  that  not  an  unpleasant  breath  of 
anything  must  disturb  her  quiet.  There  she  lay,  so 
feeble,  behind  the  white  curtains  that  surrounded  her 
bed.  A  faint  tinge  of  color  was  creeping  back  into  her 
face.  Jean  sat  combing  and  dallying  with  her  mother's 
long  flowing  hair,  and  was  saying,  "It's  so  soft  and 
shiny,  and  hasn't  a  gray  hair  in  it,  mother  mine, "  when 
the  door  opened  and  Mr.  Miser  entered.  He  had  rare 
ly  been  in  the  sick-room.  Did  he  know  it  was  his  false 
hood  and  intrigue  that  had  caused  her  this  attack  of 
long  illness  ? 

He  looked  quizzical,  remarking,  "Oh,  you  will  soon 
be  well  and  about. " 

"  I  hope  so,"  came  in  a  thin,  faint  whisper  from  the 
pillows. 


136  THE    HEROINE   0$  '40. 

Mr.  Miser  had  trouble  with  a  tuft  of  hair  growing  on 
top  of  his  head.  He  would  run  his  fingers  through  it 
as  if  they  were  a  comb,  lifting  it  up  and  spreading  it 
carefully  on  top  of  his  head  like  a  plaster.  His  vanity 
caused  him  to  think  that  Jean's  smile  was  a  sure  indica 
tion  that  she  was  pleased  with  his  personal  appearance, 
and  dubiously  returning  her  smile,  asked,  ' '  If  your 
mother  can  spare  you,  Jean,  will  you  go  to  ride  ?  Your 
pony  is  at  the  door." 

"Oh,  yes,  mamma  can  spare  me." 

And  as  they  moved  out  of  the  room,  Mrs.  Murdstone 
drew  the  curtain  aside  with  her  white  hand  and  fol 
lowed  them  with  her  eyes.  Jean  never  forgot  that 
look.  They  rode  over  the  Murdstone  place,  and  half 
the  Miser  estate,  and  halted  in  front  of  the  cabin  door, 
where  Mr.  Miser  told  Jean  they  were  going  to  live. 
That  he  would  put  a  puncheon  floor  over  half  the  cabin, 
for  a  bed-room,  and  a  dirt  floor  would  suffice  for  the 
remainder  of  the  cabin.  He  would  pile  up  some  stones 
against  the  wall,  make  a  hole  in  the  clapboard  roof  for 
the  smoke  to  escape,  which  would  take  the  place  of  a 
chimney.  He  opened  a  rudely  constructed  door  made 
of  clapboards,  and  together  they  entered  the  hut. 
Jean's  heart  was  almost  standing  still,  while  the  hand 
somest  eyes  that  ever  lighted  a  handsome  face,  scanned 
the  man  who  had  the  power  and  right  to  bring  her  to 
such  a  place  to  live,  and  she  decided  that  blanched 
cheeks  or  moist  eyes  could  have  no  more  effect  upon 
him  than  they  did  the  dirt  she  was  standing  upon. 
Therefore,  she  laughed  a  little  pluckily,  saying : 

"  What  wonderful  plans  for  improvement,  Mr.  Miser. 
You  would  make  this  hut  a  little  palace." 

"  You  must  call  this  a  cabin,"  he  answered,  in  severe 
tones,  putting  his  fingers  through  his  hair,  and  plaster 
ing  it  solidly  on  top  of  his  head,  adding : 

"  I  should  not  like  the  neighbors  to  say  that  we  live 
in  a  hut.  Such  things  are  picked  up  very  quickly  in 
this  new  country." 

And  Jean  with  a  little  laugh,  spiritedly  replied : 

' '  The  way  to  prevent  that  is  not  to  live  in  a  hut," 


THE    INDIAN   HUT.  18t 

and  she  patted  the  mane  of  the  chestnut  sorrel  that 
stood  close  to  the  cabin  door. 

They  mounted  again,  and,  riding  home,  Mr.  Miser 
explained  that  he  wished  to  set  three  or  four  men  to 
work,  and  they  must  commence  housekeeping  at  once. 
Jean  ventured  to  query,  *  *  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
build  a  new  house,  and  leave  me  at  mother's  while  you 
were  getting  things  ready?" 

"My,  what  a  erand  lady.  We  get  things  ready  for 
you !  Why,  don  t  you  know  you  are  only  a  poor  girl  ?" 
sneered  Miser  with  the  trickiest  smile  that  ever  dis 
closed  villainy  in  a  man's  lace. 

Jean,  with  scorn  wreathing  her  lips,  asked:  "Did 
you  not  tell  my  mother  so?' 

With  the  sinister  smile  deepening :  "  What  would  not 
a  man  tell  to  get  a  girl  these  hard  times,  when  the  United 
States  government  allows  him  the  alternative  to  marry 
or  be  robbed  of  his  land  ?" 

Jean's  mother  was  asleep  when  she  entered.  From 
this  she  knew  that  Mr.  Murdstone  had  not  told  her 
anything  to  disturb  her.  This  gave  Jean  time  to  bathe 
her  face,  and  put  back  the  tears  that  would  come.  She 
hoped  it  would  take  some  weeks  for  Mr.  Miser  to  make 
these  extensive  improvements.  If  her  mother  could  be 
well  again !  She  would  do  anything  in  her  power  to 
coax  her  back  to  health  and  strength.  She  would 
bend  every  energy  while  she  was  with  her  to  hasten  her 
recovery.  She  requested  Murdstone  and  Miser  to  al 
low  her  to  disclose  the  fact  to  her  mother  tbat  she  was 
going  to  housekeeping.  She  thought  if  she  could 
make  her  mother  believe  that  it  was  her  desire  to  make 
the  change,  it  would  rob  this  parting  of  half  its  sting, 
and  so  prevent  Mrs.  Murdstone  from  being  thrown  into 
a  relapse,  which  she  much  feared  might  occur. 

On  the  last  evening,  as  they  sat  by  the  fire,  Jean's 
brother,  Will  Ames,  hearing  Mr.  Miser  remark  that  the 
cabin  was  fixed  up  good  enough  for  a  poor  girl  to  live 
in,  and  being  indignant  at  the  idea  of  Mr.  Miser's 
speaking  thus  of  his  sister,  turned  full  upon  him  and 
said: 


138  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

"  You  cut  and  hewed  those  logs  when  you  first  came 
home  from  California,  to  build  a  house  for  Eufamie 
Shrum,  and  you  let  the  logs  rot  in  the  woods,  when  she 
would  not  have  you.  Now,  because,  as  you  just  said, 
my  sister  is  a  poor  girl,  that  old  Indian  hut  is  good 
enough  for  her  to  live  in.  I  would  not  go  one  step, 
Jean,  until  he  hauls  those  logs  in  and  puts  up  as  good 
a  house  as  this,  or  as  the  other  settlers  in  the  neighbor 
hood  have.  Everybody  will  laugh  at  you  if  you  live  in 
such  a  hut.  Besides,  mother's  too  sick  for  you  to  leave 
her  now." 

Will  stood  up  straight  as  an  arrow.  He  looked 
manly  as  these  words  flowed  freely  from  his  lips.  Jean 
was  proud  of  him.  Mr.  Miser  twitched  his  sombrero  a 
little  more  over  his  eyes,  saying: 

"What  a  champion  you  have  in  your  big  brother!" 
(he  was  only  twelve  years  of  age).  "  I  shall  have  to  be 
careful  what  I  say." 

Ridicule  was  his  ever  ready  weapon  to  ward  off 
criticism  from  himself. 

This  cabin  had  been  built  five  years  before  by  some 
half-breed  Indians,  belonging  to  the  Hudson  Bay  Com 
pany,  who  lived  in  the  French  prairie.  All  Indians 
are  clannish  to  a  degree  that  will  not  admit  of  isolation, 
and  they  abandoned  the  cabin  after  it  was  built.  They 
had  a  large  herd  of  horses  that  liked  the  hills  for  their 
range,  and  they  could  drive  them  out  of  the  hills  to  the 
valley,  and  often  lasso  three  or  four  of  the  band 
for  riding  horses,  turn  the  others  loose,  and  immedi 
ately  they  took  to  the  hills  away. 

The  Indians  seemed  to  know  where  to  build  their 
houses  as  instinctively  as  the  birds  do.  This  cabin 
was  located  in  quite  a  romantic  spot,  on  a  little  rise  of 
ground,  covered  here  and  there  with  wide-spreading 
oaks,  with  now  and  then  a  stately  fir.  Near  by,  ran  a 
babbling  brook,  with  maple,  ash,  alder,  pine,  willow 
and  hazel  trees  lining  its  banks.  Back  of  the  cabin 
sloped  a  gradually  rising  hill,  farther  and  farther, 
higher  and  higher,  until,  when  the  sun  was  setting,  it 
looked  like  a  mountain  piercing  the  cloudless  sky.  Oil 


THE    INDIAN    HUT.  139 

the  other  side  of  the  creek,  stretched  a  gradually  un 
dulating  plain  for  miles  away,  in  about  the  center  of 
which  stood  the  Murdstone  dwelling  and  grounds,  and 
Jean  could  easily  see  her  mother's  house  from  the 
cabin. 

The  last  night  that  Jean  was  at  home  with  her 
mother  she  sat  in  front  of  the  bright  blazing  fire.  A 
pile  of  oak  logs  were  burning  and  dropping  their  great 
solid  coals  on  the  hearth,  and  were  soon  consumed 
into  light  gray  ashes.  How  like  the  old  home  in  Illi 
nois,  before  Mr.  Murdstone  came.  Oh,  for  those  days 
back  again.  She  at  school,  her  mother  sewing  in  her 
neat  dress,  her  face  glowing  with  perfect  health,  the 
children  playing  in  the  corner  just  as  they  were  now; 
and  if  she  must  be  married,  why  could  it  not  have 
been  to  any  one  of  the  dozen  schoolboys  who  used  to 
be  so  delighted  when  it  rained  or  snowed,  and  she 
allowed  them  to  carry  her  umbrella — they  thought  her 
somebody — instead  of  that  old  man  in  the  corner,  with 
the  slouched  hat  over  his  eyes,  who  thought  her 
nobody  because  she  was  poor,  and  who  no  longer 
attempted  to  disguise  his  age  by  putting  shoe  blacking 
on  his  beard. 

"Are  not  all  children  born  poor?"  she  queried;  "all 
born  alike?  Of  course  some  have  more  things  given  to 
them  by  their  families.  Had  he  any  right  to  twit  her 
about  what  she  could  not  help,  and  degrade  her  by 
taking  her  into  an  Indian  hut?  If  I  were  half  as  smart 
as  my  brother  Will,  I  would  not  go  one  step  until  the 
new  house  is  built.  Riches  do  not  make  a  man  nice, 
nor  does  it  make  girls  nasty  to  be  poor."  Thus  her 
thoughts  smouldered  like  the  ashes  on  the  hearth,  but 
at  length  she  forgot  her  grief  as  all  children  do,  and 
took  part  in  the  fun  and  laughter  that  was  growing 
quite  boisterous,  as  the  mother  was  well  enough  to 
endure  the  noise,  and  the  father  was  spending  the  even 
ing  at  a  neighbor's,  for  there  was  never  a  sound  of  laugh 
ter  or  merriment  in  the  house  when  Murdstone  was  in 
it,  and  thus  the  fun  ran  riot  when  he  was  out  of  it. 
Next  morning,  when  Jean  was  muffled  in  her  warm 


140  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

wraps,  her  sweet  little  face  clasped  between  her  moth 
er's  white  hands  for  the  good-by  kiss,  her  countenance 
glowing  with  intelligence,  her  mother  thought:  "  Whj 
she  looks  almost  a  woman.     My  poor  child,  this  is  suo 
a  cold,  raw  day.     Do  be  careful  not  to  take  cold." 

"  Why,  how  can  I,  when  there  is  a  blazing  fire  on 
the  hear — ,orfirepla — ;  well,  anyhow,  afire  against  the 
wall  of  the  cabin?  So  don't  fret  about  me.  Intelligent 
people  make  themselves  comfortable  in  any  part  of  the 
globe,  under  any  sky." 

"  But,  my  child,  you  have  never  lived  on  a  dirt  floor. 

"  Oh,  you  forget,  in  crossing  the  plains." 

"Yes,  there,  too,  we  had  the  clean  grass  and  the 
bright,  fresh  turf  for  a  carpet." 

"  Yes,  but,  mother,  I  have  a  buffalo  robe,  and  a  long 
shaggy-haired  bear  skin,  two  wolf-skins,  and  brother 
Will  has  given  me  his  otter  skin  that  is  too  nice  for  a 
rug,  and  I  am  going  to  make  a  hair  seat  for  you,  and 
you  must  get  well  and  come  soon  to  see  how  nice  it  is. 
We  have  not  a  chair  in  the  cabin."  Here  she  turned 
and  ran  out  of  the  house  in  a  great  hurry.  The  children 
were  all  at  the  gate,  and  clambering  into  the  old  cov 
ered  wagon,  hugged  and  kissed  Jean  good-bye.  Miser 
took  them  all  out  again. 

Jean  thought  her  heart  would  burst.  She  was  alone 
in  the  old  wagon  in  which  they  had  crossed  the 
plains.  But  there,  there  was  enjoyment,  merriment, 
every  day  exciting  scenes,  and  amusing  incidents. 
Now  some  great  all-absorbing  terror  seized  her, 
and  seemed,  like  midnight  darkness,  to  envelop  her 
as  she  sat  there  all  alone.  Was  it  a  presentiment 
of  the  life  she  was  to  endure?  She  never  could  look 
back  upon  that  comfortless  hour's  ride,  with  its  soul 
torture,  but  a  tremor  would  seize  her.  She  had  been 
busy  thinking  of  others,  but  now  she  was  alone  with 
her  own  soul  and  her  pitiable  plight.  She  felt  like  one 
about  to  undergo  a  surgical  operation  where  great  suf 
fering  is  to  be  endured,  and  life  itself  endangered;  like 
one  man  going  to  battle  without  drum,  fife,  flag,  or 
comrade,  not  even  a  canteen  of  cold  water.  She  longecj 


THE    INDIAN    HUT.  141 

to  hear  the  sound  of  voices;  she  wished  her  husband 
to  speak  to  her.  He  walked  silently  beside  the  dumb 
cattle;  only  the  death-like  stillness  reigned.  She  tried 
to  think  how  she  would  arrange  her  household.  She 
could  think  of  nothing  but  this  nameless  horror.  What 
was  it  ?  Was  her  mother  dying,  she  soliloquized  ?  If 
all  the  friends  she  had  ever  known  were  already  dead, 
she  could  not  feel  worse. 

They  are  at  the  cabin.  Mr.  Miser  pulls  a  "Buckskin 
string,  and  the  clapboard  door  swings  back  with  an 
ominous  creaking  on  its  wooden  hinges;  and  the  old 
wood  rat  that  had  made  its  nest  in  the  corner,  the 
squirrels  that  are  frisking  over  the  roof,  the  blue-jay 
that  is  digging  out  some  of  the  acorns  that  he  laid  away 
for  his  winter  use,  all  scamper  and  fly  the  invasion. 
An  old  crow  sits  on  a  long  pole  that  projects  from  the 
roof,  caw,  caw,  cawing.  Jean  calls  it  the  bird  of  ill- 
omen,  throws  a  stone  at  him,  and  away  he  flies.  The 
bugs  and  worms,  and  the  old  hanging  bark  that  had 
broken  loose  from  the  logs,  and  hangs  in  shreds  all 
over  the  cabin,  a  hiding-place  for  the  bugs  and  worms 
— these  and  the  dust,  the  bloom  of  time,  remain. 
Jean  had  already  determined  in  her  own  mind  to  enter 
tain  no  friendly  relations  with  the  present  occupants  of 
the  cabin. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THEY  WERE  NOT  THE  BUGS  OP  CIVILIZATION. 

Jean's  mother,  with  the  consent  of  Mr.  Murdstone, 
had  loaned  her  one  of  the  wagon  covers  to  make  a 
house  lining  in  the  corner  of  the  cabin  where  the  bed 
was  to  stand.  This  would  serve  as  a  protection  to  the 
sleepers  from  the  strongest  draft  of  wind,  and  also  pre 
vent  the  keen-eyed  savages  from  peering  in;  but  more 
than  all,  prevent  the  easy  access  to  the  bed,  of  the  bugs, 
worms  and  spiders  whose  hiding  place  was  behind  the 
dead  bark  of  the  logs  that  composed  the  cabin.  She 
fastened  a  tester  sheet  to  this  lining  at  the  back  and 
head  of  the  bed.  In  front,  and  at  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
she  fastened  drapery  of  well-ironed  sheets,  whose 
snowy  folds  fell  nearly  to  the  floor.  Around  the  bot 
tom  of  the  bedstead  she  placed  a  valance  of  blue  and 
white  broad- checked  gingham,  which  was  a  shiny  ac 
cessory  to  the  bed,  and  looked  almost  as  much  out  of 
place  in  the  cabin  as  she  herself.  When  she  had  made 
the  bed,  with  its  snowy  sheets  and  plump  pillows, 
it  looked  good  enough  for  a  palace.  The  bedstead 
was  made  of  Oregon  curly  maple,  by  a  cabinet-maker, 
and  given  her  by  her  mother — the  only  real  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  hut. 

Mr.  Miser  said,  u  It  looks  charming  now,  but  after  a 
few  gusts  of  smoke  from  iny  patent  fire-place  it  will 
present  a  very  different  appearance." 

Jean  replied,  "  The  curtains  will  protect  the  bed,  and 
they  can  be  washed  semi-occasionally." 

Mr.  Miser  had  utilized  some  of  the  puncheon  boards  to 
construct  a  table,  by  putting  the  ends  of  the  boards  through 
the  orack  between  the  logs  of  the  cabin,  and  two  legs  aud 


NOT  THE  BUGS  OF  CIVILIZATION.  143 

a  cross-piece  to  hold  up  the  front  of  the  table.  Jean  cov 
ered  it  with  a  .snowy  tablecloth,  and  set  a  very  com 
fortable  meal  that  she  had  brought  cooked,  from  her 
mothers'.  The  table  was  solid,  but  rougher  than  a  storm 
at  sea.  The  fire  was  burning  cheerfully,  and  the  smoke 
curling  out  of  the  hole  in  the  roof,  to  her  great  surprise; 
but  she  thought  to  herself,  "As  God  tempers  the  wind 
to  the  shorn  lamb,  so  he  is  adapting  the  wind  to  the 
chimney."  How  she  missed  that  quiet  composure  that 
pervaded  her  home  when  they  all  sat  around  the  table, 
waiting  for  the  blessing  to  be  asked.  The  meal  being 
over,  she  busied  herself  clearing  away  the  dishes, 
arranging  them  on  their  little  clapboard  shelves,  that 
Mr.  Miser  had  fastened  to  the  wall,  and  called  a  cupboard. 
She  took  a  kitchen  apron  which  she  fastened  to  the 
back  of  the  shelves,  and  at  the  front  of  these  rough 
boards  she  tacked  some  narrow  ruffling,  then  she  set 
away  the  few  pieces  of  crockery,  tin  cups  and  plates; 
the  knives,  forks  and  spoons  she  put  in  a  covered  box, 
and  all  the  food  in  the  iron  bake-kettle  for  security. 
By  deft  and  shrewd  management,  constant  and  eternal 
vigilance,  she  kept  herself  from  being  eaten  or  eating 
any  of  the  bugs,  worms  or  spiders  that  inhabited  the 
hut  along  with  herself  and  husband. 

These  were  not,  dear  reader,  the  bugs  of  civilization, 
known  as  the  bed-bug,  nor  the  festive  flea,  nor  the 
musical  mosquito.  They  were  bugs  indigenous  to  that 
particular  climate  and  hut.  They  belonged  to  the 
half-decayed  fir  log.  They  were  a  species  that  did  not 
take  long  ranges  from  their  native  habitat.  The  little 
housekeeper,  however,  not  understanding  their  pecu 
liar  traits  of  character,  and  being  shocked  at  the 
thought  of  any  closer  companionship  with  them,  bar 
ricaded  against  them  with  might  and  main.  Miser 
had  made  two  rude  benches  from  logs  split  in  two. 
One,  about  five  feet  long,  served  him  as  a  lounge;  the 
other  was  Jean's  chair,  not  very  restful  to  be  sure. 
"When  the  life  is  taken  out  of  one's  soul,  the  body  tires 
quickly.  Next  morning,  after  a  simple  breakfast,  Mr. 


144  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

Miser  said  to  Jean.  "  I  am  going  to  Mill  Creek  to 
drive  up  some  cattle  to  slaughter  a  beef." 

Jean  looked  beseechingly  at  him,  asking  : 

"Will  you  be  gone  all  day?  Then  I  will  go  to 
mother's,  because  I  can't  stay  in  this  place  all  day 
alone,  I  am  afraid/'  and  her  lip  began  to  quiver. 

"  There's  going  to  be  no  tagging  between  you  and 
the  Murdstone  brats,"  said  he,  glowering  upon  her. 
"  You  stay  right  here,  and  bake  some  bread;  nothing 
will  hurt  you.  There  will  be  four  men  here  to-night 
for  supper.  They  are  going  to  work  on  the  ranch. 
Two  will  go  to  plowing,  and  two  will  go  into  the 
woods  to  chop  down  trees,  and  hew  logs  to  build  your 
ladyship  a  house  to  live  in.  You  d —  fool,  do  you 
think  (with  more  oaths),  that  the  trees  will  chop 
themselves  down  and  walk  out  of  the  woods  on  to  this 
lovely  ground,  and  make  themselves  into  a  beautiful 
residence  for  you,  because  you  are  a  mighty  lady?" 

At  the  first  volley  of  oaths  Jean  put  her  apron  up 
to  her  face,  her  slight  frame  trembling  with  fear  and 
horror,  the  tears  falling  like  rain.  She  stopped  cry 
ing,  saying : 

"  I  must  go  to  see  my  mother  to-day." 

"You'll  not  go  one  step;  but  stay  at  home  and 
make  bread,  and,  while  it  is  baking,  you  can  read 
in  your  Bible  that  nice  little  story  about  Lot  and  his 
daughters,  and  how  David,  the  man  after  God's  own 
heart,  took  Uriah's  wife  to  himself  to  wife." 

Then  he  mounted  his  pony  with  a  great  flourish,  half 
singing: 

"  Hey,  ho,  here  we  go,  riding  on  a  rainbow,  under 
a  cloud,  leaving  a  rain-storm  behind." 

No  Indian  could  have  looked  wilder,  with  his 
slouched  hat  flying  in  the  wind,  then  he  did,  as  Jean 
heard  his  horse's  clattering  hoofs,  and  saw  him, 
through  her  tears,  galloping  away. 

Jean  did  not  believe  there  were  any  such  stories  in 
the  Bible.  She  put  her  head  on  the  table  and  cried 
until  she  could  scarcely  see.  She  bolted  the  cabin- 


NOT    THE    BUGS    OF    CIVILIZATION.  145 

door,  as  they  had  done  the  previous  evening,  then 
crawled  behind  the  curtains  into  her  bed,  more  dejected 
and  miserable  than  any  worm  behind  the  old  dead 
bark  in  the  logs  that  made  her  wretched  prison  cell 
and  theirs. 

Jean  had  heard  men  swear  on  the  plains  when  they 
were  very  angry,  but  she  thought  them  the  offscour 
ings  of  the  earth;  they  were  not  people  with  whom  her 
family  would  associate,  any  member  of  which  would 
have  been  guilty  of  any  crime  as  soon  as  swearing  or 
lying.  She  learned,  alas!  so  soon  that  Mr.  Miser  cared 
no  more  whether  his  word  fell  on  the  side  of  truth  or 
falsehood,  than  the  wind  cares  whether  it  blows  to  the 
north  or  the  south.  If  her  mother  had  been  well  she 
would  have  flown  home  to  her.  But  as  she  was  too 
sick  to  hear  a  wail  from  her,  she  would  obey  her  hus 
band,  bake  the  bread,  and  try  so  hard  to  be  a  woman. 
She  had  thought,  before  her  marriage,  that  she  would 
love  her  husband  like  other  women;  when  she  grew 
to  be  a  woman,  she  would  be  a  model  wife.  Al 
though  her  head  was  aching  ready  to  burst,  she 
thought  she  would  get  up  and  bake  the  bread  and 
have  the  evening  meal  prepared  for  the  hired  men 
when  they  came,  and  trying  to  stand  on  her  feet  she 
grew  so  sick  she  thought  she  was  dying,  and  fell  back 
on  the  bed.  Life's  voyage  was  making  her  sea-sick  as 
a  storm  at  sea ;  and  she  lay  all  day  so  limp  and  lifeless, 
not  caring  if  the  ship  with  its  living  freight  sunk  to  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  just  as  you  and  I,  dear  reader,  have 
felt  a  thousand  times  when  very  sick  at  sea.  .About 
three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon,  she  heard  a  noise  like 
the  surging  sound  of  mighty  waters,  then  the  tread  of 
horses'  hoofs,  then  the  lowing  of  cattle,  and  the  halloo 
ing  of  men,  and  raising  her  head  from  the  pillow,  the 
excitement  together  with  the  exertion  of  rising  made 
the  rebellious  contents  of  her  stomach  eject  themselves 
upon  the  puncheon  floor.  Just  at  this  moment  Mr.  Mis 
er  opened  the  cabin  door.  She  looked  so  white  he  thought 
10 


146  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

for  a  moment  she  might  be  dying,  and  with  some  show 
of  alarm,  brought  her  a  tin  cup  of  cold  water.  She  could 
not  drink  it.  It  was  not  fresh  from  the  spring.  He 

coolly  remarked:  "  That  d crying  made  you  sink," 

and  left  her,  to  give  directions  about  killing  the  beef. 

They  gave  the  herd  salt  to  eat  on  the  ground,  and  as 
they  were  licking  away  at  the  salt,  all  unmindful  of 
the'deadly  bullet  that  the  man  let  fly  with  well-directed 
aim,  one  animal  fell  to  rise  no  more,  and  now  the  loud 
bellowing  of  the  herd  as  they  smelled  the  fresh  blood 
flowing  from  their  comrade's  wound  was  enough  to 
make  a  heart  of  stone  ache,  yet  Jean  had  to  hear  it  all, 
so  near.  She  lay  in  her  bed  so  sick,  so  thankful  for 
the  screen  of  curtains  that  hid  her  from  the  view  of 
those  rough  men.  Miser  brought  a  hired  man  of  nine 
teen  into  the  cabin,  who,  after  he  had  shown  him  the 
cooking  utensils,  rolled  up  his  sleeves,  and  very  soon 
announced  to  the  slaughterers  that  he  was  ready  for 
the  beefsteak.  They  yelled  back:  "  You  are  a  daisy; 
got  supper  in  a  jiffy." 

They  brought  some  huge  slices  of  the  meat  that  was 
still  warm,  put  it  into  the  frying  pan,  where  it  fried 
up  quickly,  then  sat  down  to  partake  of  a  meal  of  this 
delicious  steak,  with  hot  biscuit,  and  hot  potatoes, 
boiled  with  their  jackets  on.  They  drank  their  coffee 
out  of  the  bright  tin  cups,  and  were  awed  into  silence 
by  the  neatness  of  their  surroundings.  They  knew  the 
sick  woman,  hid  from  their  view,  was  one  of  refine 
ment  and  delicacy.  Their  respectful  consideration 
was  very  soothing  to  the  sufferer.  The  tension  of  fear 
taken  off  her  nerves  was  fast  relieving  her  head  of  its 
acute  pain.  Her  brother  Will  came  at  sundown,  and 
rode  his  horse's  nose  right  into  the  cabin  door.  The 
horse,  thinking  it  a  shabby  stable,  was  about  to  walk 
in.  This  brought  a  laugh  both  within  and  without  the 
cabin.  Jean,  hearing  the  clatter,  pulled  the  curtain 
aside,  and  Will,  getting  a  glimpse  of  Jean  lying  there, 
slid  from  the  horse,  and  in  an  instant  clasped  her  to  hia 
breast,  saying: 


NOT   THE    BUGS    OF   CIVILIZATION.  147 

"  My  poor  sister,  are  you  sick?"  and  their  tears  min 
gled  together. 

"  Oh,  Will,  why  did  you  not  come  sooner?"  wailed 
Jean,  her  slight  frame  trembling  in  her  brother's  arms. 

That  morning,  when  Will  was  driving  up  the  milk 
cows  from  the  pasture,  he  espied,  down  by  the  low, 
murmuring  brook,  first  by  the  fragrance  and  then  by 
the  bloom,  a  little  full-blown  primrose  on  a  bush 
glistening  with  dew,  like  diamond  drops,  all  studded 
with  buds  half  bursting.  "  This  was  a  beauty,"  he 
said  to  Jean  as  he  took  it  out  of  his  pocket,  all  crushed 
and  bruised,  "  my  dear  sis,  the  sweet  little  thing  was 
just  like  you  when  I  picked  it  this  morning,  all  shining 
with  dew;"  and  Jean  took  it  smiling.  "  It  is  more 
like  me  now,  all  crushed  with  this  headache,"  and  she 
took  a  deep  breath,  inhaling  the  delicious  fragrance. 
"A  smell,  brother,  will  kill  or  cure  me  sooner  than 
anything."  Then  she  told  him  how  the  old  wood-rat 
had  been  walking  about  all  day,  with  such  a  stinking 
nasty  smell.  It  had  been  investigating  things,  and  had 
poked  its  nose  against  the  bake-oven  lid  a  dozen  times. 
Once  it  frightened  her  almost  to  death  by  trying  to 
run  up  the  curtain.  She  threw  her  shoe  at  it,  and  it 
scampered  away.  But  the  blue  jays  came  and  twittered 
and  pecked,  and  pecked  and  twittered  again,  eating 
the  acorns  out  of  the  logs  on  the  cabin  roof  where 
they  had  hidden  them  for  their  winter's  use.  And  the 
old  crow,  that  she  threw  a  stone  at  yesterday — was  it 
only  yesterday?  and  the  tears  glistened  in  her  eyes  as 
she  said  it — came  back  with  a  dozen  others.  "  They 
must  have  been  talking  about  our  coming  in  here,  I 
think,  by  the  dignified  way  they  walked  back  and 
forth  over  the  shingles,  caw,  caw,  cawing  and  making 
remarks,  some  of  them  not  very  flattering,  I  should 
think  from  the  sound,  to  the  people  who  would  take 
an  old  crow's  rookery  like  this  to  live  in."  The  two 
children  continued  talking  until  the  men  had  gone  out 
to  work,  when  Will  brought  his  sister  some  coffee 
with  some  sweet  cream,  that  he  had  carried  in  a  bottle 


148  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

from  his  mother's.  She  drank  it,  and  ate  a  mouthful 
of  bread,  feeling  very  much  revived.  Next  morning, 
Will  came  again,  asking  for  Jean  to  return  to  her 
mother's  for  a  few  days.  Miser  consented,  saying: 

"  She  is  only  an  expense  here  and  not  worth  a  d ." 

So  the  children  went  rejoicing  on  their  homeward  way. 

Jean  spent  one  blessed  week  in  the  old  home;  then 
back  again  to  her  prison  pen  and  slavery  for  six 
months  in  the  hut.  Just  imagine  the  horror  of  sitting 
on  that  old  bench  on  the  dirt  floor,  afraid  the  bugs 
would  crawl  from  the  ground  to  her  feet  and  dress,  or 
that  they  might  at  any  moment  drop  into  her  hair  from 
the  rough  roof,  and  then  the  eternal  vigilance,  that  for 
ever  listening  attitude,  born  of  fear,  that  the  murder 
ous  savages  might  surprise  her  by  slipping  up  in  their 
moccasined  feet,  over  the  soft  turf,  still  as  death,  and 
tomahawking  her  without  an  instant's  warning. 

Was  ever  the  felon's  cell  equal  to  this?  Talk  of  the 
Bastile;  criticise  foreign  countries  for  their  tyrannies  to 
the  people;  the  Czar  of  Russia  for  his  cruelties  to  the 
exiles;  and  deluge  the  nation  in  blood  to  free  a  hand 
ful  of  negro  slaves,  when  an  hour's  cool-headed  legisla 
tion  would  have  freed  them  and  did  free  them  at  last, 
and  without  which  they  would  not  have  been  freed 
had  they  fought  till  now,  and  then  take  your  brightest 
and  best  American  girl-children,  and  make  their  lives 
like  this.  Flaunt  your  flags,  and  shoot  your  guns,  and 
talk  of  Fourth  of  July.  The  great  American  nation, 
free  under  the  American  flag. 

This  child  had  a  right  under  the  constitution  of  our 
beloved  country,  to  the  pursuit  of  happiness.  Do  not 
forget  that  it  was  the  laws  of  our  beloved  country  that 
exiled  this  girl-child  from  her  home,  and  forged  the 
chains  that  held  her  in  that  prison  pen,  and  do  not  for 
get  also,  my  brainy  reader,  that  it  was  the  acumen  of 
me  greatest  minds  that  our  boasted  civilization  has 
yet  produced  that  formulated  these  laws.  Let  us  help 
you  further  to  remember  that  this  condition  of  things 
did  not  grow  out  of  the  scum,  the  festering  ulcer,  the 


NOT    THE    BUGS    OF    CIVILIZATION.  149 

hot-bed  of  our  evil-doers,  the  poor  and  uneducated, 
the  lower  classes,  but  from  the  highest  element;  the 
wise,  the  learned,  the  god-like,  the  good;  they  that 
feel  proud  of  the  intellectual  heights  they  have  at 
tained.  We  wish  to  inflate  them  still  more  by  show 
ing  them  how  their  edicts  in  law,  work  out  a  problem 
in  human  life,  by  showing  them  this  one.  Give  us  an 
extra  strut,  gentlemen,  when  you  walk  the  earth,  god 
like  mortals;  and  lift  your  hats  a  little  higher,  never 
catching  a  glimpse  of  the  contempt,  the  lip  wreathed 
in  scorn,  of  the  beautiful  woman  you  have  passed. 
And  get  an  idea,  you  quick-witted  readers  that  the 
life  of  the  one  little  child  we  are  trying  to  give  you  a 
glimpse  of,  is  only  one  of  thousands  who  are  impris 
oned  just  the  same,  whose  lives  may  be,  in  some  re 
spects  better,  in  many,  infinitely  worse.  We  have  very 
tender  consideration  for  .your  lack  of  comprehension, 
brother  man,  your  muddled  brain,  your  supreme  igno 
rance  of  everything  that  is  essential  for  you  to  know 
before  you  legislate  for  girl-children;  and  therefore  we 
make  the  question  simple,  so  that  even  you,  oh  man, 
may  comprehend  it.  If  it  requires  twenty-one  years 
for  a  man  to  mature  sufficiently  to  cast  a  vote  Intelli 
gently  for  the  purpose  of  securing  office  for  some  sim 
pleton,  would  it  not  require  an  equal  amount  of  intel 
lectual  maturity  to  select  a  helpmeet  for  life  ?  As 
men  and  women  are  equal  *then  should  not  both  arrive 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one  years,  before  they  be  allowed 
by  the  laws  of  the  land  to  be  united  in  marriage  ? 


CHAPTEE  XXIV. 

JEAN'S  HOME  SOLD  WITHOUT  HER  CONSENT. 

At  last  the  new  house  was  completed,  with  its  shingle 
roof,  sawed  lumber,  roughly  planed  for  a  floor,  two 
doors,  and  an  old-fashioned  window  with  panes  of  glass 
ten  by  twelve  inches,  a  broad  porch  stretching  away  on 
either  side  of  the  front  door.  A  broad  fire-place,  built 
of  rough  stone  and  clay,  with  its  wide  hearth  of  flat 
stone,  with  many  a  crack  here  and  there,  that  taxed 
Jean's  energy  to  the  utmost  to  keep  free  from  dirt  and 
ashes.  Mr.  Miser's  peeuliar  disposition  to  hoard  his 
gold  had  now  become  so  apparent  to  Jean  that  she 
knew  that  he  was  in  every  way  a  Miser — both  in  name 
and  nature.  To  her  astonishment,  he  told  her  that  the 
things  that  were  in  the  old  house  would  do  for  the  new, 
and  did  not  add  even  a  chair.  But  the  house  was  so 
clean  and  so  secure  that  she  felt  like  one  of  the  spirits 
of  the  damned  that  had  been  confined  in  Hades,  and 
was  now  lifted  to  Heaven,  the  change  from  dirt  to  clean 
liness  was  so  great.  Jean  lived  in  this  broad,  spacious, 
one-roomed  house  in  comparative  comfort  for  a  year 
and  a  half.  She  had  become  accustomed  to  Miser's 
one  peculiar  phrase  that  she  had  not  as  much  sense  as 
a  ' '  yaller  dog. "  He  was  so  constantly  planning  villainy 
against  his  neighbors,  that  he  did  not  dare  to  speak 
before  Jean  for  fear  of  disclosing  his  plans.  When  he 
entered  the  house,  it  was  his  habitual  custom  to  hang 
his  hat  on  a  peg,  put  his  fingers  through  his  hair, 
and,  with  the  remark  that  his  "  nerves  were  shottered," 
lie  down  on  the  bench,  one  hand  under  his  head  for  a 
pillow,  the  other  shading  his  eyes.  This  was  his  atti 
tude  during  every  moment  spent  in  the  house.  Any 
woman  who  has  passed  through  the  perils  of  maternity 


JEAN'S   HOME    SOLD.  151 

must  know  how  Jean  longed  for  a  little  sympathy  as  her 
time  of  trial  drew  near — a  little  tenderness.  It  never 
came  in  word  or  look.  After  three  days  of  agony,  at 
the  very  verge  of  death,  after  praying  that  she  might 
never  breathe  again,  and  thus  be  relieved  of  this  terri 
ble  torture,  she  lay  for  weeks  before  she  was  conscious 
that  a  little  puny  life — a  feeble,  wailing  thing — was  by 
her  side,  and  that  her  mother  was  hovering  over  her 
with  the  tears  falling  like  rain  in  the  blessed  joy  that 
Jean  knew  her  again.  All  the  bitter  protests  of  Mr. 
Murdstone,  and  all  the  oaths  of  Mr.  Miser,  could  not 
wrench  Jean's  mother  from  her  side.  She  said  she  re 
quired  her  care  to  bring  her  back  to  life,  and  she  and 
the  little  one  received  her  watchful  solicitude  for  three 
months.  And  when  Mr.  Miser  said  he  wished  Jean  and 
the  baby  were  both  dead  and  out  of  the  way,  some 
words  escaped  Mrs.  Murdstone's  lips  that  she  thought 
afterwards  she  should  not  have  spoken.  They  were  the 
dawning  of  truth  and  justice  in  her  mind.  She  did  not 
recognize  them  as  such.  They  were  these:  "If  Jean 
were  at  home  again,  she  should  remain  there  until  she 
was  a  woman."  Will  Ames,  with  rebellion  in  his  heart, 
said,  "It's  a  shame!  They  are  two  babies  together.' 
And  Jean's  soul  was  riveted  to  his,  though  she  lay  there 
so  helpless.  Her  first  conscious  grief,  after  returning 
to  life,  was  that  Mr.  Miser  never  came  near  nor  looked 
at  the  baby,  and  her  next  great  disappointment  was 
that  a  pleasant  morning  caller  apprized  her  of  the  fact 
that  her  home  was  sold  and  she  was  to  move  one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  miles  from  her  mother  and  her  present 
home — no  family  living  within  fifty  miles  of  the  new 
habitation.  Jean  hated  the  woman  for  the  news,  and 
quoted  to  her  mother,  "  How  beautiful  upon  the 
mountain  top  are  the  feet  of  him  that  bringeth  glad 
tidings."  And  when  she  questioned  Mr.  Miser  about 
it,  he  answered,  with  one  of  his  foxy  smiles,  that  he 
knew  nothing  about  it,  and  if  it  were  true,  she  would 
find  it  out  soon  enough.  And  Jean  answered,  '  *  You  can 
sell  your  land,  but  I'll  not  sell  mine.  We  have  gone 
through  too  many  hardships  to  secure  the  land." 


152  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

It  was  the  Methodist  missionary,  the  Kev.  Mr.  "Wil 
liam  Roberts,  a  gentleman  much  more  noted  for  his 
suavity  of  manner  and  duplicity  of  character  than  for 
his  religious  teachings,  who  contrived  with  Mr.  Cursica 
Miser  to  rob  Jean  of  her  land,  her  home  near  her 
mother  that  she  had  paid  dearly  for.  Old  Shylock's 
pound  of  flesh  wasn't  a  flea-bite  compared  with  what 
Jean  was  paying.  The  reverend  gentleman  and  the 
defrauding  husband  had  written  to  the  Land  Depart 
ment  at  Washington  to  have  the  title  of  the  land  made 
out  in  the  name  of  Mr.  Roberts  and  his  wife. 

As  Jean  signed  the  deed,  which  she  blotted  with  her 
tears,  and  the  glittering  gold  was  counted  out,  and  laid 
upon  the  table  by  the  reverend  gentleman,  she  said, 
sorrowfully,  " The  cursed  gold  that  cost  me  this!" 

If  she  had  been  a  woman,  instead  of  wiping  the  tears 
from  her  eyes,  she  would  have  wiped  the  reverend  gen 
tleman  out  of  the  house,  and  never  signed  the  paper. 
But  as  it  was,  Mr.  Miser  damned  her  fluently  for  cry 
ing  and  setting  the  neighbors  to  jibing  him,  and  saying, 
as  he  termed  it,  that  he  had  "  swindled  her  out  of  her 
land." 

And  Jean  asked,  half  smiling,  "  Is  it  my  tears  and 
not  your  acts  that  cause  the  neighbors  to  say  this?  I 
thinK  they  say  the  truth." 

"  We  will  go  where  we  have  no  neighbors,"  snapped 
the  enterprising  Mr.  Miser,  adding  his  usual  number 
of  adjectives.  And  they  did. 

Jean's  baby  boy,  who  was  now  a  year  and  a  half  old, 
was  the  joy  of  her  existence.  She  and  her  mother  had 
begged  Mr.  Miser  to  go  on  horseback  to  select  his  gov 
ernment  land,  but  he  insisted  upon  Jean's  going  in  the 
ox-wagon  and  coming  back  agjain.  It  took  them  six 
weeks  to  make  the  trip.  Theirs  were  the  first  wagon- 
wheels  that  passed  over  the  government  road  that 
fighting  Joe  Hooker,  in  the  summer  of  1851,  had 
surveyed  for  the  government  through  Oregon  to  Cali 
fornia,  and  had  marked  the  road  by  a  furrow  plowed 
to  indicate  the  line  of  the  survey  all  the  way 
through  the  Willamette  Valley  until  he  reached  the 


JEAN'S    HOME    SOLD. 

Umpqua  mountains,  where  he  chipped  the  trees  to  mark 
the  route.  In  all  this  vast  expanse  of  country,  the 
broad  valleys,  rolling  hills,  towering  mountains  and 
rough  woodland,  there  were  located  but  two  families, 
one  at  Spalding's  Ferry,  where  Eugene  City  sits  like  a 
fair  diadem  crowning  the  valley,  and  the  other  the  Ap- 
plegate  family,  where  Yoncolla  now  nestles  between  the 
thickly  studded  hills.  Mr.  Miser  called  a  halt  on  the 
North  Umpqua  river,  fifteen  miles  above  where  Hose- 
burg  is  now  located. 

Three  white  men  had  preceded  the  Misers,  with  a 
small  band  of  Indian  ponies,  that  rumor  said  they  had 
driven  away  from  the  California  ranches  without  the 
ceremony  of  a  permit  from  their  former  owners.  The 
Indians,  who  had  never  seen  a  white  woman  before,  ap 
peared  to  be  very  friendly.  Jean  was  almost  as  terror 
ized  by  their  friendly  attentions  as  she  would  have  been 
at  their  hostility.  They  crowded  around  her,  every 
one  of  the  band  touching  her  dress,  some  of  the  matron 
ly  old  savages  even  patted  her  shoulders  and  smoothed 
down  her  soft  dark  tresses.  They  took  the  comb  out  of 
her  brown  hair,  letting  it  fall  down  in  heavy  ripples, 
and  as  it  fell  their  tongues  began  to  clatter  with  the 
greatest  enthusiasm.  Jean  wondered  if  they  were  plan 
ning  to  take  her  beautiful  scalp  as  a  trophy.  "  Hyou 
typso,"  went  from  mouth  to  mouth,  which  she  after 
wards  learned  meant  great  quantity  of  hair. 

The  soft  liquid  sounds  "sappalilli,  sappalilli,  "  f ell 
on  her  ears  in  a  chorus  of  voices.  This  meant  to  con 
vey  the  idea  that  they  were  rejoiced  at  the  coming  of 
the  whites,  as  now  they  would  have  bread.  Though 
the  white  men  said  there  was  no  danger  of  an  attack 
from  the  Indians,  yet  they  took  the  precaution 
to  build  a  little  log  pen  inside  their  cabin,  where 
in  they  could  securely  sleep  at  Anight,  and  where 
Indian  arrows  could  not  reach  them.  Cursica 
Miser  located  a  claim  of  six  hundred  and  forty 
acres  of  land  on  the  banks  of  the  Umpqua,  where  the 
wild  grasses  grew  luxuriantly  on  the  river  bottom,  shoot 
ing  their  tasselated  spears  above  a  man's  hat  when 


154  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

on  horseback.  After  a  few  days  they  wended  their 
slow  way  back  through  the  Williamette  Yalley  to  the 
place  where  the  capital  of  the  great  state  of  Oregon 
now  flourishes.  Here  Jean  was  with  her  mother  again 
for  a  few  short  weeks.  It  was  apparent  to  herself  and 
her  mother  that  Jean's  young  life  was  again  to  be 
taxed  by  the  perils  of  maternity.  Her  experiences  had 
not  been  such,  when  alone  with  her  husband,  so  far 
from  any  vestige  of  civilization,  that  she  was  eagerly 
desirous  of  having  them  repeated.  Once  during  this 
journey  they  had  lost  their  way  from  the  main  track, 
and  were  compelled  to  go  through  a  heavy  forest,  a 
gloomy  and  melancholy  place,  when  Jean  asked  Mr. 
Miser,  "  Why  did  you  take  this  way  instead  of  the  way 
we  came?"  He  answered,  with  a  look  of  stealthy  ex 
ultation,  "  I  came  this  way  to  kill  you  and  throw  you 
under  a  tree.  I  would  not  have  dragged  this  wagon  all 
this  long  distance  and  back  again,  only  for  revenge  for 
your  making  the  row  about  signing  the  deed  to  the 
land." 

Very  indiscreetly  Jean  retorted.  <f  Had  I  known  you 
then  as  I  know  you  now,  I  would  never  have  signed 
the  paper;"  and  her  tears  mingled  with  those  of  the 
baby  whose  little  life  was  being  made  a  torture  by  the 
dust  and  heat,  the  fatigue  and  thirst.  The  more  they 
cried,  the  more  the  malicious  grin  expanded  on  the 
countenance  of  Cursica  Miser,  who  repeatedly  an- 
nouned  to  Jean  on  this  trip  that  he  wished  that  she 
and  her  brat  were  both  dead  and  in  hell,  from 
which  language  one  might  easily  infer  that  the  gentle 
man  was  not  enjoying  his  revenge  as  much  as  he  might 
have  anticipated.  Sitting  humped  up  on  the  front  seat 
of  the  wagon,  his  slouched  hat  pulled  over  his  face,  or 
trudging  slowly  along  beside  the  dumb  brutes 
that  could  scarcely  crawl,  over  three  hundred  miles 
of  rough  road,  under  a  scorching  sun,  could  not  have 
proved  a  very  sweet  morsel  of  revenge,  even  to  one  of 
so  vindictive  a  nature  as  Mr.  Cursica  Miser. 

Mrs.  Murdstone  implored  Mr.  Miser  to  leave  Jean 
with  her,  assuring  him  that  one  so  young  and  in  so  del- 


JEAN'S    HOME    SOLD.  155 

ioate  a  condition  might  be  a  source  of  great  expense  as 
well  as  inconvenience,  and  he,  with  his  habitual  malic 
ious  grin,  acquiesced  in  Mrs.  Murdstone's  request;  but 
in  a  few  weeks,  when  the  teams  were  all  ready  to  start, 
a  band  of  horses  and  cattle  already  moving  out  on  the 
trail,  Mr.  Miser  ordered  Jean  very  unceremoniously  to 
come  right  along  with  him.  What  could  she  do,  but 
with  fear  and  trembling  obey  her  kind-hearted  and  con 
siderate  lord  and  master? 

The  writer  would  be  glad  if  one  of  the  wise  persons 
who  think  that  girl-children  mature  faster  than  boys, 
could  have  stood  in  Jean's  shoes  that  day.  Her  mother 
stood  like  a  stone,  without  tears  on  her  face,  as  she 
clasped  Jean  to  her  breast,  and  thought  her  heart 
would  burst. 

Miser  on  this  journey  was  in  a  measure  deprived  of 
his  opportunities  of  perpetrating  his  cruel  speeches 
upon  his  defenseless  wife,  since  two  hired  men  bore 
them  company,  one  of  them  driving  the  team  in  which 
Jean  and  the  baby  rode.  On  account  of  some  delays, 
they  were  fifteen  days  on  the  journey  before  thev 
reached  the  banks  of  the  Umpqua,  where  their  land 
claim  and  the  wide  world  lay  spread  out  before  them. 

They  soon  erected  an  impromptu  shelter  of  "such 
material  as  around  the  workman's  hand  most  read 
ily  found."  It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size,  eighteen 
by  twenty  feet,  of  a  rough  and  rude  construction, 
having  one  door  for  entrance,  no  floor,  no  window,  no 
fire-place.  They  brought  with  them  a  cook-stove 
and  a  few  chairs,  and  Jean  her  Bible  and  hymn-book, 
and  a  little  old-fashioned  dictionary.  After  they  were 
settled  here  three  or  four  days,  Mr.  Miser  returning 
in  the  evening  after  a  long  tramp  over  the  mountains 
and  hills,  investigating  the  amount  and  quality  of  the 
range  they  would  afford  for  his  stock,  he  brought  with 
him  a  boy,  a  veritable  little  ruffian,  Jean  thought,  who, 
Mr.  Miser  informed  her,  would  remain  with  her  and  the 
baby  in  the  cabin  while  he  and  the  men  returned  to 
the  Willamette  Valley  to  drive  back  a  drove  of  cattle 
that  he  intended  to  buy  with  the  money  they  had 


156  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

realized  from  the  sale  of  their  home.  Jean  fell  on  her 
knees  with  an  entreaty  to  be  taken  to  the  Applegates 
to  remain  until  his  return,  imploring  not  to  be  left 
alone  with  the  wild  savages  about  her,  who  had  come 
every  day  since  their  arrival  to  look  at  her  and  beg  for 
bread.  He  was  no  more  moved  by  her  pleading  than 
was  the  ground  on  which  she  knelt,  but  looked  down 
upon  her  with  the  same  treacherous  grin,  putting  his 
fingers  through  his  hair,  and  saying : 

"  If  the  Indians  kill  you  I  will  gain  two  points;  I  will 
be  rid  of  you,  and,  as  the  Indians  will  then  be  killed 
by  the  whites,  I  will  be  freed  from  their  disturbing  my 
cattle,  which  they  will  kill  more  or  less,  until  they  are 
all  exterminated  by  us  whites.  I  like  to  see  you  weep; 
you  look  Madonna-like  with  your  prayers  and  tears." 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

INDIANS  TAKING  POSSESSION. 

Thus  Jean  was  left  to  the  mercy  of  the  savages  for 
six  long  weeks,  alone  with  the  twelve-year-old  boy, 
nearly  as  wild  as  the  Indians  themselves,  who  roamed 
at  their  own  sweet  will  through  her  cabin  and  out 
again.  Sometimes  the  old  squaws  told  her,  as 
best  they  could,  that  they  were  sorry  for  her.  On 
one  occasion,  when  the  valley  tribes  had  been  visit 
ing  with  their  mountain  friends,  hunting  and  fish 
ing,  their  visit  had  terminated  in  a  fight,  which  often 
happens  in  more  civilized  communities  when  people  go 
for  summer  outings.  The  valley  tribe,  on  their  home 
ward  march,  stopped  at  Jean's  unprotected  cabin  to 
have  their  wounds  dressed,  recruit  a  bit,  and  tie 
up  the  rents  in  their  garments  with  strings.  One  of 
the  squaws  told  Jean  to  give  her  a  needle  and  thread, 
and  she  would  sew  her  torn  calico  dress  as  the  white 
squaws  did  theirs.  They  rode  their  ponies'  noses  into 
the  cabin  door.  There  were  about  thirty  in  all,  who 
dismounted  and  walked  in  themselves.  They  were 
greatly  excited,  and  talked  violently  to  each  other. 
Jean  thought  her  time  had  come;  she  knew  she  was  to 
be  killed.  The  fact  was  certain  as  though  the  toma 
hawk  was  already  buried  in  her  brain.  She  knelt  down 
in  the  farthest  corner  of  the  cabin,  and  put  her  apron 
over  the  child,  thinking  the  savages  might  not  see  it  if 
thus  concealed. 

The  old  chief,  Nezic,  struck  with  her  prayerful  atti 
tude  and  her  pale  face,  pounded  on  the  door  with  his 
clenched  hand  to  attract  her  attention.  If  he  had 
moved  toward  her,  she  would  have  died  with  fright, 
but  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  tears  were  streaming 


158  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

down  hi«  bronzed  face.  And  putting  his  hand  over 
the  region  of  his  heart,  he  said,  "No  bad  turn  turn" 
(meaning  heart),  and  explained  that  he  was  the  same 
as  a  white  man,  and  lived  in  a  house  at  the  Applegates'. 
Jean,  hearing  the  name  of  'Applegate,'  felt  safe,  and 
rousing  herself  rose  to  her'feet,  to  show  that  she  under 
stood  the  chief,  who  could  speak  a  few  words  of  Eng 
lish,  having  lived  at  the  Applegates'  a  number  of  years. 
He  told  Jean  he  would  protect  her  from  the  rest  of  the 
Indians,  who  had  taken  advantage  of  her  being  alone 
and  swarmed  into  her  house ;  and  at  his  command  they 
all  filed  out,  giving  a  grunt  of  dissatisfaction  and  a  sneer 
of  contempt,  as  an  Indian  knows  well  how  to  do.  Jean 
immediately  sent  the  boy  on  the  fast  steed  that  she  kept 
tied  at  her  camp,  to  cross  the  river  at  a  very  dangerous 
ford  a  mile  and  a  half  away,  to  tell  the  three  men  who 
live  d  on  the  other  side  of  the  river  to  come  to  her  as 
sistance. 

The  last  faint  sound  of  the  flying  hoofs  of  the  mes 
senger  had  scarcely  been  lost,  when  her  strained  ear 
caught  the  sound  of  the  hurrying  squadron  of  the  four 
horsemen  returning.  As  soon  as  they  flung  themselves 
from  their  panting  steeds,  and  listened  to  Jean's  story, 
they  assured  her  there  was  no  danger.  Jack  Smith,  a 
man  of  some  learning  and  refinement,  observing  her 
condition,  soothed  and  attended  her  like  a  brother. 
He  told  her  to  go  and  lie  down,  and  he  would  hold  the 
Indians  in  check,  apprehending  that  the  fright  might 
bring  on  some  disastrous  results  tha.t  would  be  a  little 
more  difficult  for  him  to  control  than  even  these  wild , 
hostile  savages.  He  requested  the  Indians  to  remove 
their  camp  a  little  farther  from  the  cabin.  They  had 
built  a  fire  of  stove-wood  not  six  feet  from  the  door, 
and  laughed  at  him,  saying  they  would  build  their 
fires  in  their  own  country,  of  their  own  wood,  just 
where  they  pleased,  and  jeeringly  remarked  that  the 
pale-faced  squaw  should  have  more  "  tillicums,"  which 
meant  "friends,"  and  that  there  never  was  a  tribe  of 
Indians  that  would  leave  one  of  their  squaws  among 
*the  whites  as  this  white  woman  was  left  among  them. 


Putting  his  hand  over  the  region  of  his  heart,  he  said,   "  No  bad  turn  turn. 


INDIANS    TAKING    POSSESSION.  159 

That  Mr.  Miser  had.  gone  to  bring  cattle  to  eat  their 
grass,  and  when  he  returned  they  would  eat  beef,  just 
as  they  were  using  his  wood  now;  saying  which,  one  of 
them  picked  up  a  load  of  wood  and  piled  it  on  a  blaz 
ing  fire  near  the  cabin,  to  show  Mr.  Jack  Smith  that 
they  would  do  what  they  chose  with  their  own.  Mr. 
Jack  Smith  was  somewnat  stung  by  the  taunt  of  this 
imperious  squaw,  Alillo,  whose  eyes  were  like  an  eagle's, 
and  her  hair  like  the  raven's  wing,  an  olive-brown 
skin,  and  teeth  of  pearl  that  gleamed  as  she  thus  truth 
fully  said  that  no  tribe  of  Indians  would  treat  one  of 
their  women  as  the  whites  did  Jean.  It  rankled  in  his 
breast,  and  on  Mr.  Miser's  return  he  supposed  he 
would  bring  at  least  a  companion  and  nurse  for  his 
wife;  but  as  there  was  nothing  of  the  kind,  nor  could 
one  be  obtained  within  a  hundred  miles,  and,  thinking 
he  himself  would  be  brought  into  requisition,  as  he  had 
been  before,  to  protect  her  from  the  savages,  he  rode 
over  to  Miser's  camp  one  day,  and  attacked  that  gentle 
man  with  these  questions : 

' '  I  called  to  see  in  what  way  you  expected  to  obtain 
medical  aid  or  assistance  for  your  wife,  Mr.  Miser? 
You  may  think  it  is  an  impertinent  question,  but  as 
you  left  her  here  alone  this  summer,  and  as  we  three 
white  men  were  the  first  to  make  this  settlement,  we 
feel  called  upon  to  maintain  law  and  order."  And,  with 
his  hand  on  his  revolver:  "  We  have  decided  that  if 
you  neglect  your  wife  in  this  shameful  way,  and  any 
thing  happens  to  her,  we  will  hang  you  to  that 
oak  tree,"  pointing  to  a  broad-spreading  oak  with  low 
limbs,  ten  feet  away.  "  I  would  suggest  the  propriety 
of  your  taking  her  back  to  her  mother  before  the  rains 
set  in." 

And  Cursica  Miser,  who  was  a  miserable  coward, 
when  cornered,  assured  Mr.  Smith,  with  all  the  suavity 
at  his  command,  that  he  would;  and  that  afternoon 
when  he  came  into  the  cabin,  he  made  the  air  blue 
with  his  oaths,  and  Jean  never  divined  the  cause,  as 
she  did  not  understand  his  profane  language.  Ha 
the  next  time  he  moved  lie  would  go  a  hundred 


160  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49.  '   .   /  .    ' 

miles,  but  he  would  get  away  from  meddlesome  neigh 
bors.  And  in  a  few  days  Miser  informed  Jean  that  he 
was  going  to  the  Willamette  Valley  to  procure  a  few 
varieties  of  fruit  trees  and  some  choice  seeds,  and  that 
she  could  accompany  him  to  her  mother's  and  remain 
there  during  the  winter.  She  had  been  dragged  back 
and  forth  so  often  that  the  trip  had  lost  its  charm, 
if  it  ever  had  any;  and  when  he  told  her  that 
she  would  ride  the  old  bay  that  stood  fifteen  hands 
high,  and  had  great  swaying  pendulum  strides  like  a 
oamel  on  the  desert,  she  was  sure  she  had  not  the 
strength  to  take  the  trip,  and  told  him  so,  saying: 

"  How  will  the  baby  go  ?" 

"Why,"  said  Miser,  "we'll  carry  him  as  the  squaws 
do  their  papooses.  They  travel  everywhere  with  their 
children  on  horseback." 

"  Oh,  it  will  kill  him  to  go  one  hundred  and  fifty 
miles.  The  rains  are  coming,  and  it  is  so  cold.  Oh, 
why  did  you  bring  me  here?" 

"  I  brought  you  here  for  revenge  for  not  wanting  to 
sign  that  deed,  and  every  trip  you  have  taken  this 
summer  has  been  for  revenge.  I'll  teach  your  ladyship 
not  to  oppose  me  in  anything  I  want  to  do.  I  marry  a 
poor  girl  like  you,  and  you  set  yourself  to  rule !"  And 
with  one  of  the  most  malicious  grins  ever  seen  on  his 
face,  he  concluded  this  tirade  with,  "  You  would  not  at 
least  have  been  in  your  present  helpless  condition  only 
for  my  revenge." 

An  idea  was  just  dawning  upon  the  soul  of  Jean  of 
the  evil,  designing  nature  of  her  husband,  and  with  ap 
parently  renewed  strength,  she  answered  him,  bravely : 

"Squaws  don't  have  physicians,  and  white  women 
have  borne  children  in  the  mountains,  and  what  oth 
ers  have  endured,  I  can,  and  I  don't  want  to  undertake 
this  long  journey  in  this  inclement  season." 

"Just  because  you  don't  want  to  take  the  journey  is 
the  very  reason  you  shall.  What  do  you  know  about 
it.  You  haven't  half  as  much  sense  as  a  yaller  dog!" 

This  convinced  Jean  that  her  words  were  useless, 
and  her  tears  unavailing. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  BRAVERY  OF  ALILLO,  THE  SQUAW. 

On  the  afternoon  of  November  4th,  1852,  they  started 
on  their  long  ride.  Jack  Smith  came  to  see  them  off, 
and,  helping  Jean  on  to  her  horse,  said,  "  We  are  only 
a  lot  of  coarse,  rough  men,  no  better  than  the  heathen, 
and  don't  know  how  to  take  care  of  you,  so  the 
best  place  for  you  is  with  your  mother."  He  rode 
with  them  for  a  short  distance,  carrying  the  baby, 
which  was  now  twenty  months  old,  and  grew  very  tired, 
even  in  that  short  ride,  and,  turning  back,  with  a  few 
cheering  words,  bade  them  good-by.  Kindly  instructing 
Jean  not  to  carry  him  a  foot  of  the  way,  he  handed  the 
baby  back  to  Miser,  saying  she  would  have  enough  to 
to  do  to  care  for  herself.  They  traveled  a  few  miles 
down  the  east  side  of  the  Umpqua  River,  when  they 
came  to  the  roughest  country  that  ever  the  eye  of  man 
rested  upon.  High  mountain  gorges  and  deep  ravines; 
crag  after  crag  reached  to  frowning  battlements,  and 
one  precipice  after  another  yawned  on  either  side; 
towering  mountains  loomed  to  the  right  of  them ;  the 
river  went  surging  and  foaming  and  dashing  over  the 
rocks  below  them.  After  they  had  gone  only  a  few 
miles,  Jean  was  gazing  in  awe  at  this  wild  grandeur, 
when  suddenly  her  horse  stopped,  his  form  trembling 
beneath  her,  his  nostrils  distended,  showing  in  every 
movement  a  protest  and  a  determination  to  go  no  far 
ther  over  the  trail;  and  no  wonder,  for  there  was  a 
rooky  point,  jutting  out  over  the  boiling  abyss  that  lay 


THE   HEROINE   OlT  '49. 

a  thousand  feet  below  them.  There  was  no  path  worn 
around  this  solid  rock.  It  reared  its  towering  front 
almost  to  the  sky.  Little  Indian  ponies  had  gone 
around  for  ages  possibly,  until  they  had  worn  their 
footprints,  little  cup-places,  in  the  solid  rock ;  but  this 
great,  tall  animal  on  which  Jean  sat  could  not  adapt 
its  footsteps  to  the  worn  tracks  of  the  Indian  ponies. 
Miser  had  alighted,  sent  his  horse  and  the  pack-animal 
ahead,  and  stood  there  holding  the  baby  in  his  arms 
and  Jean's  horse  by  the  bridle,  encouraging  it  to  walk 
on.  The  horse  had  mildly  but  firmly  protested.  Jean 
begged  to  be  lifted  down  and  allowed  to  walk  over 
the  dangerous  trail.  Miser,  still  holding  the  bridle, 
said  with  an  oath,  "You  stay  where  you  are!" 
She  could  not  slide  down  from  the  horse,  as  her 
feet  hung  over  the  precipice.  The  boiling  torrent 
lay  so  far  beneath  her,  she  could  hardly  see  its  seeth 
ing,  only  hear  its  terrible  roar.  Miser  pulled  the  bridle, 
the  animal  moved  a  few  steps,  trembling  more  and  more. 
Jean  called,  "Help  me,  I  am  fainting!"  In  a  little 
crevice  of  the  rock  a  chapparal  bush  grew.  She  caught 
at  it  and  fell  senseless  on  the  upper  side  of  the  horse, 
and  was  thus  wedged  in  between  the  horse  and  the  side 
of  the  stone  precipice.  Miser,  watching  his  own  foot 
steps,  and  not  knowing  that  Jean  had  fallen,  continued 
moving  on.  Jean,  being  unconscious,  had  fallen  six 
feet  below,  and  caught  on  a  dwarfed  pine  tree  that 
had  struggled  into  existence,  to  all  appearances,  out  of 
the  rock,  wherein  its  roots  must  have  penetrated  and 
found  soil  to  nourish  it.  The  horse  being  now  over 
this  perilous  place,  Miser  glanced  around,  and  to  his 
horror,  discovered  Jean  lying  against  the  tree.  He  did 
not  dare  to  go  to  her  assistance.  He  was  a  coward,  and 
could  almost  feel  Jack  Smith's  rope  around  his  neck 
that  moment.  He  hastily  seized  a  rope,  and  tied  the 
baby  to  a  bush  to  save  it  from  falling  over  the  preci 
pice.  He  tore  off  his  hat  and  coat  to  lighten  his  load, 
mounted  his  horse  and  dashed  down  the  mountains  to 
an  old  Indian  camp,  a  half  a  mile  away.  He  screamed 
in  stentorian  tones  for  assistance.  The  same  squaw, 


BRAVERY  OF  ALILLO.  163 

Alillo,  that  had  taunted  Jack  Smith,  was  there.  She 
could  understand  a  little  of  the  English  language.  She 
mounted  her  pony,  told  the  Indians  to  follow,  and  in 
ten  minutes  was  bending  over  Jean,  afraid  that  the 
slender  tree  would  give  way  and  let  them  both  down. 
She  tore  off  her  buckskin  belt  and  fastened  it  around 
the  tree.  By  this  time  an  Indian  was  on  the  rock  above 
her,  who  threw  her  a  lariat  which  she  tied  securely  to 
the  belt  on  the  tree,  three  Indians  holding  it  tightly 
at  the  upper  end.  Supported  by  this  rope,  she  lifted 
Jean's  still  unconscious  form  and  pushed  it  up 
against  the  almost  perpendicular  rock,  until  the  Indian 
men  could  reach  her  dress.  They  carried  her  around 
the  precipice,  and  laid  her  down  beside  the  baby, 
whose  screams  ought  to  have  waked  the  dead.  They 
thought  Jean  dead.  Alillo  chafed  her  hands,  and  blew 
into  her  face;  she  sighed,  and  her  eyes  opened  upon 
the  same  brave  Alillo,  her  face  lit  up  with  so  much 
benevolence,  bending  over  her  with  as  much  solicitude 
as  her  own  mother  could  have  done.  She  carried  Jean 
down  to  the  Indian  camp,  and  nursed  her  tenderly  for 
days.  Next  day  Jean  lay  so  still  on  her  fern  couch 
that  Alillo  had  picked  fresh  for  her,  and  which  smelled 
so  sweet  and  fragrant  it  seemed  like  a  couch  of  down 
to  her.  She  was  compelled  to  lie  so  still,  as  she  was 
threatened  with  premonitory  symptoms  of  a  very  serious 
character.  Alillo  was  by  her  side,  bringing  little  dainty 
morsels  to  eat,  or  a  slice  of  salmon  trout,  which  grow 
about  a  foot  long,  and  are  the  finest  fish  that  ever  swam 
in  water;  this  she  would  split  in  two,  and  put  on  a 
forked  stick  placed  before  a  blazing  wood  fire,  where 
soon  it  would  be  a  delicious  brown.  Then  she  would 
bring  it  to  Jean,  with  a  loaf  of  snowy  bread,  that  Jeau 
had  baked  before  leaving  home,  and  the  two  squaws, 
the  white  and  the  dusky  brown,  sat  and  ate  and  chatted, 
and  became  well  acquainted  with  each  other's  different 
countries,  and  people,  and  their  methods  of  living.  It 
was  remarkable  how,  through  a  bond  of  sympathy, 
these  two  women  could  understand  each  other's  most 
profound  philosophies,  religions,  and  customs,  when 


164  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49 

neither  of  them  could  comprehend  but  a  few  words  of 
the  other's  language. 

Alillo  asked,  "  What  was  your  first  thought  when  you 
opened  your  eyes  and  saw  me  bending  over  you  when 
you  had  fainted  ?  " 

' '  I  knew  nothing  of  the  great  danger  I  had  passed 
through,"  replied  Jean.  "I  knew  nothing  of  your 
risking  your  fife  to  deliver  me  from  that  most  perilous 

Eosition.  I  knew  the  Great  Spirit  had  saved  me.  I 
sit  my  head  resting  on  a  stone.  The  sun  was  setting. 
It  seemed  a  great  way  below  us — so  beautiful — the 
whole  sky  bathed  in  a  soft  roseate  glow.  It  seemed 
like  heaven,  and  so  near  we  could  almost  drop  into  it, 
and  the  words  of  the  poet  seemed  a  part  of  my  being: 
' '  Though  like  a  wanderer,  my  rest  a  stone.  Nearer, 
my  God  to  Thee,  nearer  to  Thee." 

An  Indian  messenger  was  sent  to  Jack  Smith,  who 
came  riding  into  camp.  The  Indians,  who,  strange  to 
say,  send  their  messages  over  hill  and  valley,  moun 
tain  and  dale,  almost  as  quickly  as  we  send  our  tele 
graphic  communications,  brought  the  tidings  to  Jack 
Smith,  the  night  that  this  accident  occurred,  and  he  was 
in  the  camp  early  the  next  morning,  and  helped  them 
over  to  the  Applegate  settlement,  accompanied  by  Alillo 
and  several  other  Indians.  When  Smith  asked  Miser 
why  he  allowed  his  wife  to  ride  over  that  dangerous 
place,  Miser  whined  that  he  tried  to  persuade  her  to  alight 
from  her  horse,  but  she  refused  to  obey,  and  Jean  was 
too  much  afraid  to  tell  him  the  truth.  If  she  had,  Jack 
Smith  would  never  have  left  her  till  he  had  seen  her 
safe  in  her  mother's  house,  in  her  mother's  arms. 
Nothing  could  have  been  more  tender,  solicitous  or 
kind  than  the  Applegate  women  were  to  Jean,  and  yet 
she  was  almost  ashamed  to  acknowledge  to  herself  that 
she  did  not  feel  that  warm  glow  of  friendship  between 
herself  and  the  Applegate  women  that  she  did  for  this 
wild,  untutored,  savage  Alillo.  She  doubted  if  one  of 
these  white  women,  if  put  to  the  test,  would  have  risked 
her  life  for  her  as  Alillo  had.  She  told  Alillo  so, 
and  also  that  her  people  should  be  befriended  by  the 


THE    BRAVERY  Otf  ALILLO. 


165 


whites  when  it  was  in  her  power  to  influence  them. 
Alillo  returned  Jean  the  graceful  compliment,  that  she 
knew  Jean  must  be  ve^y  influential  with  the  great  men 
of  her  nation. 


Jean,  being  unconscious,  had  fallen. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

THREE   DAYS'   RAINY   BIDE. 

After  parting  with  Alillo  and  Jack  Smith,  and  the 
Indians  that  had  followed  in  their  wake  as  compan 
ions,  Mr.  Miser,  Jean  and  the  baby  commenced  the 
ascent  of  the  Calaypooa  Mountains,  reaching  the  sum 
mit  about  sundown  on  the  same  day.  Halting,  they 
made  a  blazing  camp-fire  beside  an  old  dead  log. 
The  air  was  cold  and  piercing,  as  there  had  been  a 
light  flurry  of  snow,  covering  the  bushes  and  boughs 
of  the  trees;  but,  as  the  ground  was  warm,  the  snow 
melted  as  soon  as  it  fell,  making  it  very  wet  and 
sloppy.  Jean's  horse  very  often  slipped,  and  once  or 
twice  fell  to  its  knees,  jarring  her  very  seriously, 
making  her  tired  and  lame  in  every  joint.  She  could 
neither  sit  nor  stand  after  alighting  from  the  horse  and 
pillowing  her  head  on  the  friendly  root  of  an  old  fir 
tree,  where  she  rested  till  Mr.  Miser  brought  her 
coffee,  which,  with  a  few  mouthfuls  of  bread,  revived 
her,  and  she  sat  gazing  on  the  wild,  weird  place,  too 
tired  to  care  if  the  wolves  and  bears  came  and  de 
voured  them  all.  That  night  she  slept  on  the  hard, 
cold  ground,  with  only  the  blankets  between  her  and 
cold  mother  earth.  The  marvelous  beauty  of  the  bed 
chamber  was  enchanting,  but  she  lay  there  too  ex 
hausted  scarcely  to  note  its  beauty.  The  snow  glis 
tening  on  the  broad  leaves  of  the  underbrush,  the  lace- 
like  fringe  that  the  fir-tree  boughs  made  with  their 
white  cover;  the  stars  that  shone  where  she  could 
peep  through  and  see  a  bit  of  the  heavens  ;  the  tall 
spires  of  the  dark  trees  piercing  the  dome  above  her, 


THREE  DAYS'  RAINY  RIDE. 

gave  a  charm  and  grandeur  to  the  wild  scene  that 
could  not  well  be  surpassed. 

When  she  awoka  next  morning  the  sun  shone 
brightly  here  and  mere  in  patches  where  it  could 
reach  through,  the  timber.  She  found  the  ascent 
much  more  gradual  and  less  fatiguing.  At  last  they 
reached  the  head  of  the  Willamette  Valley,  and  traveled 
several  miles  over  it,  before  striking  camp  that  night. 
Jean  took  heart,  feeling  that  the  worst  of  the  journey 
was  past,  and  they  went  to  bed  under  the  open  sky,  on 
the  soft  grass.  In  the  night  she  felt  the  rain-drops 
falling  on  her  face,  and  knew  it  was  raining.  She  cov 
ered  her  face  with  her  blanket,  nestled  her  baby  more 
closely  to  her  form,  and  went  on  sleeping  soundly. 
When  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she  found  it  pouring 
rain,  and  her  blanket  floating  in  a  pool  of  water.  Mr. 
Miser  was  up,  and  wading  through  a  slough  to  get  to 
his  horses,  that  were  tethered  on  the  bank  of  a  creek, 
where  the  grass  was  growing  luxuriantly.  She  won 
dered  if  Mr.  Miser  was  getting  any  benefit  from  his  re 
venge.  For  her  part  she  thought  it  looked  a  little  se 
rious,  when  he  said  he  wished  there  was  not  a  —  wo 
man  or  child  in  the  world.  "  And  it's  still  raining,'' 
exclaimed  he. 

"  We  are  already  as  wet  as  we  can  be,  so  what's  the 
difference  if  it  does  rain  ?"  remarked  Jean. 

"  Wouldn't  we  get  dry  if  it  stopped  raining  ?" 
furiously  queried  Miser  with  another  oath.  "  If  you 
want  anything  to  drink,  just  help  yourself;  there's 
plenty  of  water.  We  can't  make  coffee.'' 

And  they  took  a  chunk  of  bread,  and  some  dried 
venison  that  Allilo  had  prepared  for  them,  when  they 
were  at  her  camp.  She  had  sent  her  hunters  out,  and 
they  had  brought  in  a  fine  fat  deer,  the  hams  of  which 
she  had  taken  and  cut  into  strips,  and  dried  them 
quickly  before  the  fire,  and  Jean  thought  it  was  the 
most  delicious  meat  she  had  ever  tasted,  as  she  sat  on 
the  horse  eating  her  frugal  breakfast. 

The  baby  protested  against  riding  with  his  father  in 


168  *HE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

the  rain,  and  Jean  carried  him,  though  she  was  chilled 
and  numb  and  wet.     It' continued  pouring  all  day  long, 
and  all   day  long  they   rode,  with  many  a  slough  to 
cross,  where  the  horses  waded  through  the  water  up  to 
their  knees.     That  night  they  were  trying  to  find  a 
sheltering  tree  or  a  rise  of  ground,  but  they  could  find 
neither.     They  had  taken  the  west  side  of  the  river, 
and  were  going  down  Long  Tom.     No  other  alterna 
tive  remained  but  to  lie  down   in  their  wet  blankets. 
It  rained  for  two  days.     Jean  lost  all  anxiety  for  her 
self,  and  was  only  thoughtful  for  her  child,  who  was 
growing  very  restless,  and  showed  symptoms  of  having 
taken  a  severe  cold.     They  were  still  about  forty-five 
miles  away  from  home.    Next  morning  it  showed  some 
signs  of  clearing  off.     The  clouds  were  shifting,  and  a 
strong  south  wind  blowing.     The  sun  shone  brightly 
for  one  hour.     Then  the  dark  clouds  began  gathering 
overhead,  and  it  began   to  pour.      They  were  miles 
away  from  any  human  habitation,  and  had  had  no  fire  for 
three  days  by  which  to  warm  their  freezing  limbs,  or 
dry  their  clothes.     Jean's  hands   were  so  numb  she 
could  scarcely  hold  the  reins.  Although  she  was  perched 
up  on  the  tall  horse  with  a  pillow  on  her  lap,  the  baby 
resting  on  the  pillow  with  a  blanket  about  him,  her 
feet  often  dragged  in  the  water,  the  sloughs  had  grown 
so  full  and  deep.     It  required  some  horsemanship  to 
sit  there   under  such   conditions.      Her  horse   often 
plunged  into  gopher  holes,  and  unless  she  clung  to  his 
back  like  glue  she  must  topple  oft'.     At  this  juncture, 
when  the  water  was  mid-sides  to  her  horse,  Mr.  Miser, 
who  had  ridden  about  three  rods  ahead,  of  her  all  the 
journey,  making  her  feel  that  she  had  a  tender, watchful 
companion  by  her  side — one  that,  should  an  accident 
befall  her,  would  spring  to  her  aid  in  a  moment,  as  he 
did  when  she  had  slid  down  the  precipice,  and  Alillo 
came  to  her  rescue — he  paused  a  moment,  reining  up 
his  horse,  looked  back  over  his  shoulder,  and  screamed 
to  her  that  "if  she  wasn't  a  cussed  fool,  and  would  ride 
a  little  faster  they  might  reach  the  farm-house  that 


THREE    DAYS'   RAINY  RIDE.  169 

stood  on  the  west  side  of  the  Willamette  river,"  where 
Corvallis  now  stands.  Jean  said  if  he  would  carry  the 
baby,  that  she  would  endeavor  to  keep  pace  with  him. 
He  took  the  child  up  like  a  bag  of  meal,  and  tossed  him 
about  until  he  cried  so  lustily  that  Jean  was  compelled 
to  take  him.  It  was  now  dark.  They  had  ridden  up 
to  an  empty  old  cabin,  instead  of  an  inhabited  farm 
house.  Here  they  found  two  men  who  had  arrived  an 
hour  before  them,  and  were  warming  themselves  at  a 
bright  fire.  One  of  the  men  helped  Jean  from  her 
horse.  Miser  took  the  baby.  Jean  was  so  benumbed 
with  the  cold  she  could  not  stand.  The  strange  men 
helped  her  into  the  house,  and  set  her  on  a  stool  in 
front  of  the  fire.  They  were  not  aware  of  her  exhaus 
tion,  and  she  herself  was  unconscious  of  it  as  she  fell 
fainting  to  the  floor.  They  caught  her  and  laid  her  on 
their  blankets,  already  spread  for  the  night,  and  one  of 
them  flew  to  the  river  for  water  which  he  dashed  into 
her  face.  When  she  became  conscious,  she  saw  the 
two  men  standing  by  her  side,  their  faces  sad  with 
sympathy,  and  the  first  sounds. that  fell  upon  her  ear 
were  the  words  of  Miser  assuring  the  men  that  she  was 
such  a  fool  that  he  supposed  she  fainted  at  the  sight  of 
the  fire,  not  having  seen  one  for  so  long;  that  she 
fainted  at  a  big  rock  they  were  coming  round,  and  they 
were  obliged  to  stay  a  week  at  an  Indian  camp  waiting 
for  her  recovery.  "I'll  not  stay  here  a  week  waiting 
for  her  recovery,"  he  told  the  strangers. 

The  men  inquired  how  far  they  had  traveled  and 
how  far  they  were  to  go.     Mr.  Miser  informed  them. 


CHAPTEE  XXVIII. 

THE  DEATH  OF  JEAN'S  BABY. 

There  was  a  bright  sunshine  when  they  rose  next 
morning.  Jean's  spirits  were  greatly  revived  at  the 
thought  of  being  so  near  home.  And  yet  it  was  with 
the  utmost  difficulty  that  she  sat  on  the  horse  and 
rode  over  the  road  that  was  comparatively  dry  land. 
They  had  crossed  the  Willamette  Kiver  in  a  ferry-boat, 
and  found  the  road  beaten  hard  by  the  heavy  rains,  so 
that  the  horses  traveled  much  faster,  and  at  four  o'clock 
the  next  day  this  journey,  ever  memorable  to  poor 
Jean,  was  ended.  Mr.  Miser  remained  a  few  days. 
The  baby  seemed  not  absolutely  ill,  and  yet  not  well. 
Jean  and  her  mother  felt  alarmed  about  it,  and  cau 
tioned  Mr.  Miser  to  remain  a  few  days  before  returning 
to  his  ranch.  But  he  said  it  was  only  a  woman's  whim. 
He  could  not  see  but  the  baby  was  as  well  as  ever.  So 
without  taking  the  baby  in  his  arms  in  a  last  tender 
embrace,  or  kissing  Jean  good-by,  he  nodded  a  fare 
well  and  rode  away. 

He  had  not  been  gone  a  week  when  they  buried  the 
baby  in  the  new  churchyard.  It  had  gradually  grown 
worse,  and  being  much  alarmed,  they  sent  for  a  physi 
cian,  who  administered  a  lobelia  emetic,  which  of  itself 
would  have  killed  the  child;  but  the  symptoms  now 
being  greatly  aggravated,  they  sent  for  another  physi 
cian,  a  young  man,  very  talented,  but  who  at  times 
imbibed  too  much  whisky  to  command  a  clear  intel 
lect.  He  gave  the  baby  a  whole  teaspoonful  of  calomel. 
Jean  asked  if  it  was  calomel,  but  was  assured  it  was 
only  a  harmless  chalk.  She  once  reached  for  the  spoon 
in  an  agony  of  despair,  knowing  that  such  a  dose  would 
kill  her  child.  There  was  no  human  pity*  This  was 


THE  DEATH  OF  JEAN'S  BABY. 

the  most  terrible  experience  of  her  young  life.  She 
must  bury  her  baby!  Can  you  imagine,  dear  reader, 
what  life  seemed  to  her  then,  a  child  in  her  seventeenth 
year  ?  She  was  dazed  with  grief,  stunned  with  the  cold 
and  exposure  she  had  met  with.  She  could  not  shed  a 
tear.  Her  heart  was  like  stone  when  she  thought  of  the 
ignorant  brutality  of  those  doctors  that  had  killed  her 
child,  who  had  been  her  sole  comforter  through  all 
those  terrible  scenes.  She  was  not  allowed  the  poor 
comfort  to  sit  and  moan.  They  sent  for  another  physi 
cian.  After  hours  of  excruciating  agony,  and  going 
down  through  the  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death,  two 
little  infant  girls,  so  helpless  they  could  not  cry  and  so 
weak  they  scarcely  seemed  to  breathe,  were  born  and 
laid  in  the  cradle  beside  her.  Their  grandmother  said 
she  did  not  know  how,  but  they  went  on  breathing  and 
living.  Afterward,  when  she  could  sit  up  and  nurse 
them  tenderly  as  she  could,  they  could  never  fill  the 
place  of  the  noble  boy  that  she  had  laid  in  the  tomb. 
She  could  look  backward  or  forward,  and  life  held  no 
bright  spot  for  her.  The  dreary  winter  dragged  its 
slow  length  along.  Jean  having  related  some  of  the 
horrors  of  her  frontier  experience,  her  mother  resolved 
that  when  she  returned,  her  brother  Will,  a  boy  now 
sixteen  years  old,  should  accompany  her  back  to  her 
home  in  the  mountains. 

When  the  babies  were  three  months  old,  Mr.  Miser 
came  for  them  in  a  horse  team.  This  time  the  parting 
was  wrenching,  because  the  mother  and  daughter  knew 
they  would  not  meet  again  for  years. 

In  the  fall  of  '52  a  heavy  immigration  entered  the 
valley,  and  had  scattered  themselves  pretty  thoroughly 
over  it.  It  was  like  an  oasis  in  the  desert  for  Jean  to 
meet  a  human  being  along  this  hitherto  desolate,  un 
settled  country,  and  the  journey  proved  to  be  more 
enjoyable  than  any  previous  one.  On  their  return 
to  the  ranch  they  found  that  about  twenty  land 
claims  had  been  located  during  the  winter  by  the 
emigrants  of  '52,  among  them  one  family  consist 
ing  of  man  and  wife,  and  a  daughter  thirteen  years 


172  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

of  age.  Their  claim  lay  just  opposite  Mr.  Miser's. 
Jean  and  Mrs.  Trent  formed  a  friendship  that  was  close 
and  long-abiding.  Jean  was  now  only  eighteen,  and 
Hattie  Trent  fourteen;  and  they  were  like  two  sisters. 
They  could  not  meet  very  often,  as  this  dangerous  river 
had  to  be  crossed,  and  they  were  a  mile  and  a  half 
apart.  On  Jean's  side  of  the  river  there  was  no  family 
for  thirty  miles,  and  many  a  day  she  spent  alone  in  her 
cabin  from  early  morning  till  dark  with  no  companions 
but  the  babies.  In  the  summer,  her  brother  Will  arose 
before  daylight,  which  in  Oregon,  comes  before  four 
o'clock,  to  drive  up  the  work-cattle.  Jean  would  see 
him  a  moment  at  the  breakfast  table  with  the  other 
workmen,  then  all  day  long  he  staid  in  the  mountains 
splitting  rails.  Mr.  Miser  paid  his  workmen  two  dol 
lars  a  day,  but  made  a  different  bargain  with  Will 
Ames,  telling  him  he  would  pay  him  one  dollar  and  a 
half  for  a  hundred  rails,  put  him  into  a  grove  where  the 
timber  was  almost  impossible  to  split,  and  warned  him 
that  if  the  rails  were  not  of  a  certain  size  he  would  not 
accept  them,  Will  did  not  succeed  in  splitting  ten  rails 
a  day.  When  he  commenced  Jean  would  often  cry  over 
his  blistered  hands,  and  make  liniment  for  them.  Of 
ten  the  tears  of  the  two  children  mingled  together  in 
sympathy  for  each  other,  but  Will  was  the  pluckier  of 
the  two. 

"When  I  get  too  disgusted  I  can  get  on  my  horse 
and  ride  away,  Jean.  I  would  not  stay  a  day  only  to 
be  with  you,"  he  said. 

He  slept  in  the  barn,  after  working  an  hour 
and  a  half  later  than  the  other  men,  doing 
the  chores,  milking  the  cows,  turning  out  the  oxen, 
bringing  in  the  wood^.  All  this  told  on  his  health.  He 
complained  of  pain  in  his  lungs,  having  contracted  a 
severe  cold.  Jean  grew  alarmed,  and  tried  to  send  a 
letter  to  her  mother  through  some  stranger,  who  could 
pass  it  from  one  to  another,  but  found  no  one  to  under 
take  the  task.  She  would  write  one,  however,  every 
few  weeks,  and  as  no  opportunity  offered  to  send  it 
away,  she  would  write  another.  After  months  had 


THE  DEATH  OF  JEAN'S  BABY.       178 

elapsed  she  succeeded  in  sending  one,  and  it  was  full 
six  months  before  she  received  an  answer.  The  pony 
express,  that  ran  from  the  eastern  states  to  California, 
had  no  branch  in  this  country,  and  the  telegraph  poles 
were  still  growing  in  the  woods. 

Miser  grew  more  and  more  tyrannical  and  abusive. 
Having  no  critical  neighbors  near  by,  no  check-reins  of 
any  kind,  he  was  ruled  alone  by  his  masterly  qualities 
of  cruelty,  miserliness,  and  treachery.  He  must  buy 
supplies  for  the  workmen,  but  he  also  built  a  secure 
outhouse  in  which  to  store  them,  and  doled  them  out 
as  he  saw  fit.  When  there  were  no  workmen  about,  he 
starved  Jean  and  Will  almost  to  death,  and  put  on  his 
own  plate  and  devoured  like  a  wild  animal  what  he  re 
quired  for  his  own  sustenance,  telling  Jean  that  as  she 
was  not  earning  anything,  she  could  live  on  limited 
rations.  Sometimes  his  meanness  grew  so  tight  that 
even  the  workmen  were  scantily  supplied,  and  Jean's 
fine  cooking,  and  splendid  genius  for  piecing  out  a  meal, 
could  not  overcome  it.  One  day,  in  the  middle  of 
June,  when  the  workmen  were  much  rushed,  six  stalwart 
fellows  filed  into  the  cabin,  and  sat  down  to  the  table, 
glistening  with  polished  tin  cups,  bright  as  silver,  filled 
with  clear,  cool  fresh  water.  Two  plates  filled  with  snowy 
white  light  bread,  baked  to  a  delicious  brown,  were  on  the 
table.  Jean  sat  down  in  her  accustomed  place  with  her 
fresh  laundried  dress  on,  her  heavy  brown  hair  in  smooth 
coils  at  the  back  of  her  head,  gracefully  awaiting  re 
sults.  The  men  took  up  the  cups  of  water  and  drank 
them  down  in  concert.  Mr.  Miser  passed  the  bread 
from  the  head  of  the  table.  One  or  two  hungry  fellows 
took  a  big  bite  before  looking  on  their  plates.  The 
aroma  from  it  was  appetizing.  A  bevy  of  eyes  were 
leveled  upon  Jean,  expecting  her  to  get  up  and  bring 
in  the  dinner  from  the  kitchen,  when  she  simply  said: 
"There  is  nothing  else  in  the  house  to  cook,  and  Mr. 
Miser  knew  it  this  morning  as  well  as  I."  Mr.  Miser, 
in  no  wise  disconcerted,  glanced  toward  Jack  Warner, 
a  boyish  young  fellow,  easily  imposed  upon,  and  said. 

"  You  go  and  drive  the  band* of  cattle  up  that  are 


174  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

feeding  on  the  river  bottom.  There  are  some  fine  two- 
year-old  steers."  Obeying  Mr.  Miser's  request,  they 
were  driven  up,  one  of  them  shot,  and  the  meat  served 
for  a  two  o'clock  dinner.  Miser  did  not  swear,  as  was 
his  cust  )m,  at  Jean's  delaying  dinner  for  ten  minutes, 
as  he  reckoned  this  would  take  sixty  minutes  off  the 
day's  labor,  and  for  punishment  he  would  slide  stealth 
ily  by  Jean,  and,  unobserved  by  the  workmen,  pincb 
her  arm  until  it  was  black  and  blue  for  days.  Tender 
hearted  readers,  that  have  the  false  idea  ingrained 
into  your  souls  that  women  mature  so  much  faster  than 
men,  if  you  could  have  your  flesh  twisted  on  your  bones  as 
Jean  did  every  day  for  four  years,  it  might  mature  your 
brains,  if  you  are  cursed  with  that  commodity,  as  it  re 
sulted  in  maturing  her  intellect  in  time,  but  not  as 
soon  as  it  would  a  man's,  who  had  enjoyed  this  sort  of 
playful  domestic  felicity. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

WHAT  IS  HONOR? 

"It  is  the  hardest  luck,"  remarked  Mr.  Cursica 
Miser,  with  his  favorite  oath,  "  that  I  should  be  tied  to 
an  idiot  that  is  always  prating  about  honor.  Now, 
what  is  honor?  One  would  think,  by  the  way  you 
talk,  it  was  something  to  eat,  to  wear,  to  hold  or  handle, 
or  make  money  with.  If  you  were  cold  would  it  warm 
you?  If  you  were  hungry  would  it  feed  you?  If  you 
had  all  the  honor  in  the  world,  do  you  think  people 
would  run  to  you  and  pour  money  into  your  Jap?" 
This  query  was  rounded  by  another  voluminous  oath. 
"You  must  have  money  to  live  in  this  world." 

"  Money  can  be  obtained  by  honorable  means,  can  it 
not?"  queried  Jean  with  her  accustomed  far-off  look, 
as  she  took  her  baby  boy  from  his  rude  cot  and  pressed 
him  closely  to  her  breast  with  that  intensity  born  of 
the  deep  desire  of  her  heart  that  he  might  inherit  the 
type  of  soul  that  could  recognize  honor,  which  she  felt 
the  man  before  her  could  not  do,  any  more  than  he 
could  make  wings  for  himself  and  fly,  and  the  silent 
cry  of  her  heart  went  up  to  the  Almighty  to  save  her 
infant  from  such  deformity  of  soul — and  Jean's  mind 
went  wandering  off  into  the  boundless  fields  of  meta 
physics,  trying  to  feel  there  was  a  power  in  nature  that 
could  impart  character  from  the  mother  and  leave  the 
paternal  partner  ever  impotent  to  harm. 

The  torture  to  this  child-wife  of  only  twenty  waa 
that  she  could  look  down  into  the  depths  of  Cursica 
Miser's  villainies  with  a  magnified  keenness  of  vision, 
while  he  could  no  more  comprehend  the  motives  gov- 


176  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

eniing  her  acts  in  life  than  a  blind  man  can  see  the 
stone  that  he  stumbles  over.  When  they  were  first 
married  he  had  tried  to  conceal  his  acts  from  her  by 
keeping  silent,  but  at  last,  he  said,  that  was  useless,  for 
the  more  secretive  he  was,  the  more  she  read  his  con 
duct. 

"  It  would  be  better  if  you  did  not  know  everything 
I  do,"  he  said,  "  besides  hindering  rne  you  are  always 
getting  me  into  scrapes." 

"  Why,  how,  what  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Jean,  with 
her  great  brown  eyes  gazing  wonderingly  into  his. 
"What  do  I  do  to  get  you  into  scrapes,  as  you  call  it?  " 

"  Children  and  fools  always  tell  the  truth,"  respond 
ed  Mr.  Miser. 

"  Well,  does  the  truth  hurt  anybody?  "  innocently 
inquired  Jean. 

"  Well,  don't  it? "  wrathfully  continued  Miser,  as  he 
swaggered  across  the  puncheon  floor  with  one  hand 
holding  his  hat  a  foot  above  his  head,  while  the  other, 
with  the  fingers  spread  wide  apart,  combed  back  the 
offending  tuft  of  hair  that  always  seemed  in  the  way 
and  to  require  immediate  smoothing  down,  on  the  top 
of  his  head,  when  his  temper  was  ruffled.  His  hat  be 
ing  firmly  replaced,  he  seated  himself  like  one  resigned 
to  the  most  galling  fate,  and  summing  up  his  grievance 
thus,  with  the  most  frightfully  disgusting  sneer  on  his 
face,  drawled  out:  "Does  the  truth  hurt  anybody? 
Did  it  hurt  me  when  you  told  that  it  was  me  that  shot 
into  that  Indian  camp  last  fall,  when  the  old  blind 
squaws  ran  out  into  the  hills,  too  scared  to  come  back, 
and  froze  to  death  before  morning?  The  bucks  com 
ing  back  from  their  hunt,  got  up  a  war  that  cost  the 
settlement  a  pile,  and  the  government  too.  I  would 
have  lost  my  scalp  if  your  innocent  truth  had  reached 
the  Indians  two  days  sooner,  before  the  soldiers  cap 
tured  them.  I  met  some  bucks  out  in  the  hills  and  told 
them  it  was  Bill  Trask  that  shot  into  their  camp,  and 
Bill  came  within  an  ace  of  getting  his  scalp  raised,  and 
now  he's  mad  at  me.  There  were  six  old  blind  squaws 


WHAT   IS    HONOR?  177 

lying  stark,  stiff  and  cold  on  the  side-hill  next  morning 
when  I  rode  by.  How  clear  and  bright  the  sun  shone 
out;  the  weather  beamed  down  as  innocently  as  your 
truths,  on  them,  all  huddled  in  a  heap,  just  as  though 
it  could  not  be  cold  and  kill.  It  was  a  blessing  to  the 
camp  and  to  the  squaws  too,  that  they  were  dead  and 
out  of  their  misery.  I'll  venture  that  not  one  of  them 
was  less  than  a  hundred  and  twenty  years  old,  and  yet, 
when  the  Indian  camp  got  back  and  found  them  dead, 
gods!  what  a  howl  they  raised!  You  could  hear  them 
ten  miles  away,  up  and  down  this  valley,  with  that  in 
fernal  chant  of  theirs.  If  I  live  here  forever,  do  you 
think  the  neighbors  will  ever  forgive  me?  '' 

"  No,  I  guess  not,  unless  that  deed  is  wiped  out  of 
their  memories  by  some  darker  one,"  Jean  answered 
with  a  shudder. 

"  Then  you  say  does  the  truth  hurt  anybody? ' 
drawled  out  Miser,  "  and  yesterday  when  Kate  Mills 
was  here  to  see  Dan  Dorrell,  you  had  to  up  and  tell 
that  I  was  driving  one  of  her  father's  steers  across  the 
river,  and  I'll  bet  anything  you  told  her  it  was  the  big 
brown  spotted  steer  with  the  lopped  horn." 

"Why,  yes, what  harm  could  that  do?"  with  her  big 
brown  eyes  set  wondering  again. 

"  Why,  you  fool,  I  beat  the  steer  till  its  flesh  is  a 
mass  of  steak  made  tender  for  the  crows.  The  steer 
will  go  straight  home  and  lie  down  but  never  get  up 
again.  I  will  have  to  pay  for  it,  and  what  will  the 
Mills  family  think  of  me?  Miss  Kate  will  never  visit 
you  again  if  she  is  dead  in  love  with  Dorrell,"  and 
Cursica  Miser  got  up  and  scuffed  his  heels  and  strode 
the  floor,  continuing: 

"When  the  old  Indian  chief  came  and  swore  ven- 
gance  and  said  if  I  did  not  take  back  these  boards  that 
I  stole  off  his  ancestors'  graves  to  make  a  floor  for  your 
ladyship,  that  he  would  hew  the  whole  Americaa 
nation  into  little  strips  and  make  graves  without  any 
covering  of  boards,  you  cried  and  brought  him  bread, 
12 


178  THE    HEROINE]    OF  '49. 

and,  by  some  necromancy,  made  him  think  you  were 
a  saint  and  I  a  bad  man.'7 

"There  will  come  a  day,  maybe/ '  retorted  Jean, 
"when  I  will  not  cry  so  much,  but  act  more." 

"  It  would  take  one  of  the  best  nugget  mines  ever 
found  in  California,"  Miser  went  on,  not  seeming  to 
heed  her  words,  "  to  improve  this  ranch  as  it  ought  to 
be.  There  are  miles  and  miles  of  fencing  to  be  done, 
and  whenever  I  get  a  young  fellow  to  work  and  can 
make  a  good  bargain  with  him,  then  you  take  his  part 
and  cry  and  say:  '  It's  too  bad  for  you  not  to  pay  the 
boys  all  you  owe  them;  such  young  fellows  out  in  the 
world  with  no  mothers  to  care  for  them.'  There's  Bob 
Jones  and  Bill  Williams  that  I  have  paid,  and  here 
they  come  again  for  pay  that  I  deducted  for  rainy 
days  and  Sundays.  Who  ever  heard  of  a  man's  getting 
wages  for  work  on  Sundays  or  a  rainy  day?  How  can 
a  man  ever  expect  to  get  rich  with  a  woman  like  you? 
Those  two  fellows  I  got  to  take  up  government  land 
for  me — of  course  they  spent  two  years  on  it,  but  what's 
that?  they  had  a  good  time  hunting  and  fishing;  they 
were  good-natured  chaps.  I  did  not  pay  them  any 
money — I  gave  them  those  two  old  Indian  ponies,  the 
old  flint-lock  gun  and  a  pretty  good  shot-gun.  They 
are  not  the  kind  of  men  whose  time  is  worth  anything. 
They  made  a  big  fuss,  and  got  the  neighbors  to  howling 
about  my  swindling  them  out  of  the  land.  There  was 
no  swindling  about  it,"  he  continued,  pulling  his  hat 
down  over  his  eyes,  "  it  was  a  regular  bargain.  You 
thought  they  ought  to  be  paid,  and  so  I  paid  each  one 
fifty  dollars,  and  even  then  the  neighbors  said  I  wheedled 
them  out  of  the  land." 

"  You  would  not  take  $5,000  for  either  of  the  places 
now  that  you  have  your  deed  to  them,"  said  Jean. 

"  An  old  clutchman*  told  me,  confidentially,  the  other 
day,"  said  Miser,  "that  you  ad  vised  old  Chief  Nezic,  that 
day  he  got  so  mad  about  my  denuding  his  ancestral 
tombs, — to  kill  cattle  and  get  his  pay;  and  to  console  him 

*Meaning  "  Indian." 


WHAT    IS    HONOR?  179 

still  further,  you  asked  him  if  he  did  not  think  the  spirits 
of  his  departed  friends  would  spurn  the  boards  being 
brought  back  and  replaced  on  their  graves,  after  the 
pale  faces  had  stolen  them  and  walked  on  them,  and 
all  the  fine  sentiments  about  desecrating  the  graves  of 
his  beloved  dead  vanished  from  the  mind  of  the  old 
savage  like  the  base  fabric  of  a  dream  as  soon  as  you 
told  Vim  he  could  exchange  the  boards  for  beef.  You 
cautioned  him  to  burn  the  horns  and  hoofs  to  prevent 
being  caught  stealing  cattle.'* 

"Yes,"  answered  Jean,  "I  told  him  all  that  and 
more.  If  I  had  not,  my  own  life  would  have  been  the 
only  one  left  to  tell  how  the  war  began.  That  tuft  of 
hair  that  you  comb  up  with  your  fingers  so  much  would 
have  been  dangling  at  the  belt  of  the  old  chief  long  ago, 
along  with  the  scalps  of  all  the  other  whites  along  the 
river."  And  Mr.  Miser,  with  more  serious  candor  on 
his  countenance  than  it  usually  wore,  taunted  her  with 
"You  would  have  been  spared,  no  doubt  You  have  a 
charmed  life  that  the  Indians  all  respect.'7 

"  Not  that  at  all,"  answered  Jean, "  but  my  first  act 
after  landing  here  was  to  dress  the  poor  little  idiot 
boy's  feet,  who  had  kicked  over  a  pot  of  boiling  water 
on  them  while  asleep,  scalding  the  flesh  horribly.  I 
washed  them  and  dressed  them  with  clean  cloths  every 
day  until  Alillo  came,  from  her  trip  in  the  mountains 
after  berries,  and  she  took  the  task  off  my  hands." 

"And  he's  your  servant  to-day?  " 

"Yes,  my  faithful,  willing  servant,  and  rather  a 
bright  boy,  too,  considering  the  Indians  called  him  a 
'  pilton '  *  before  I  took  him  in  hand." 

"And  so  you  confess  you  told  the  old  buck  to  kill 
cattle?" 

"  Yes.  Why  not  be  honorable  with  the  Indians  ? 
Had  I  not  come  into  their  country,  bringing  droves  of 
cattle,  thousands  of  head,  to  feed  on  their  grass?  Do 
not  I  eat  their  deer,  killed  by  the  whites?  If  we  kill 
their  deer,  why  should  they  not  kill  our  cattle?  Can 

*  Pilton,  meaning  fooL 


180  THE    HEROINE   OF  '49. 

we,  the  superior  race,  come  in  here,  taking  their  land, 
game,  fish,  berries,  everything,  and  ask  them  to  stand 
still  and  starve  to  death?  I  cannot  and  will  not  do  it. 
There  is  no  honor  nor  justice  in  it.'7 

"  There  you  go  again — honor!  " 

"  Yes,  honor.  The  wildest  Indian  I  ever  met  will 
not  let  me  do  him  a  kindness  without  almost  immedi 
ately  returning  it  fourfold.  If  I  tell  one  to  sit  by  my 
fire  to  warm  on  a  cold  day,  or  give  him  a  good  dinner, 
as  I  do  lots  of  times,  or  even  a  piece  of  bread,  he  will 
come  soon  with  a  great  fat  venison  ham,  or  a  basket  of 
delicious  wild  berries,  nestling  in  forest  leaves,  to  cater 
to  my  delicate  taste;  or  perhaps  a  string  of  those  glori 
ous  mountain  trout,  or  a  buckskin,  beautitul  and  soft 
as  velvet,  all  of  which  put  my  little  acts  to  shame. 
And  Alillo  has  brought  me  so  many  new  baskets,  that 
are  so  useful  I  could  not  keep  house  without  them. 
What  would  life  be  without  my  otter,  beaver,  bear, 
wolf,  and  skunk  skins  to  cover  this  old  puncheon  floor? 
I  tell  you,  the  Indian  character  in  its  native  wildness  is 
grand,  until  stung  to  revenge  by  the  villainies  of  the 
whites." 

"  And  Alillo  is  your  sister.19 

"  Yes,  my  sweet,  wildwood  sister,  that  I  can  trust 
my  babies  with." 

"  Oh,  you  can  trust  any  Indian." 

"  That  is  so;  I  have  not  met  with  one  act  of  treachery 
yet  from  an  Indian.  I  cannot  conjure  up  a  shadow  of 
fear,  now  that  I  have  lived  with  them  so  long;  that  is, 
a  near  neighbor,  with  very  amicable  and  friendly  rela 
tions.  I,  a  marauder  and  foreigner  in  their  country! 
If  a  war  should  break  out  to-day  I  should  be  safe  from 
the  savages'  tomahawk." 

"  Because  you  feed  them  on  beef?  "  queried  Miser, 
with  one  of  his  most  quizzical  smiles. 

"Yes,  because  I  try  to  act  honorably  with  them, 
and  they  know  it." 

"  Still  prating  about  honor.  I  should  like  to  know 
what  it  is.  It's  some  d necromancy  that's  past 


"Oh,  oh,  Mimiloose,  Mimiloose,' 


WHAT  is  HOKOR?  181 

my  comprehension.  It  is  a  very  convenient,  adapt 
able  kind  of  arrangement.  Everything  I  do  by  the 
Indians  is  thieving,  and  everything  you  do  is  honor 
able.  When  I  found  where  the  Indians  had  <  cached ' 
their  winter's  wheat,  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  in  the 
dry  land,  intending  to  have  a  good  time  eating  « sapa- 
lilli'  when  they  returned  from  their  hunt,  I  took 
Mike  Blley,  the  wagon,  old  Towser  and  the  shot-gun, 
and  raised  their  '  cache '  and  hauled  it  into  camp  and 
stored  it  in  my  granary — fifty  bushels  of  the  finest 
white  wheat  I  ever  saw.  Those  old  squaws  had  win 
nowed  out  every  bit  of  dust  and  chaff.  There  wasn't 
a  ahriveled-up  kernel  of  wheat  in  the  whole  lot." 

"And  you  can't  see  that  it  was  a  mean  act?  You 
hired  those  old  squaws  to  work  in  the  harvest  field  and 
you  didn't  pay  them  a  cent,  only  allowing  them  to 
glean  the  scattered  heads  of  wheat  in  the  stubble 
fields,  and  when  they  had  picked  up  the  heads  one  by 
one  and  thrashed  them  in  their  baskets,  and  winnowed 
them  by  blowing  out  the  chaff  and  dust,  then  you  went 
in  the  night  in  their  absence  and  hauled  it  in  and  locked 
it  up  in  your  granary,  and  don't  know  it's  an  act  that 
ought  to  bring  on  a  war  of  extermination — of  at  least 
yourself." 

Jean  had  scarcely  uttered  these  words,  when  Allilo 
came  flying  into  her  cabin,  her  long  hair  unbraided  and 
fljing,  her  whole  dress  in  the  wildest  confusion.  She 
flung  herself  on  the  floor  and  rocked  herself  to  and  fro, 
and  as  soon  as  she  could  speak  said,  in  her  own  lan 
guage: 

"The  Eogue  Rivers  are  fighting  on  Cow  Creek,  and 
my  father  and  twenty  braves  have  gone  to  join  them — 
Oh,  oh,  Mimiloose,  Mimiloose!"  (meaning,  they  will  be 
killed.)  In  an  instant,  old  Chief  Nezic  came  rushing 
in,  and  with  excited  gestures  and  wild  pantomime, 
showed  how  the  battle  was  on — the  Indians  shooting, 
and  pale  faces  falling  everywhere,  their  houses  burned, 
their  cattle  killed  for  vengeance. 

In  a  moment  more,  two  horsemen  galloped  up  at  full 


182  THE    HEROINE    OF  »49. 

speed,  and  confirmed  the  news  that  was  too  true.  The 
whole  country  was  in  arms.  The  next  day  it  was 
learned  that  eight  or  ten  families  along  the  road  had 
been  taken  by  surprise,  all  murdered,  and  their  cabins 
burned;  but  the  settlers,  volunteer  soldiers,  flew  to 
arms,  and  drove  the  savages  back  to  their  stronghold 
in  the  mountains. 

The  war  lasted  two  years.  But  the  Indians  were  held 
in  check  first  by  the  volunteer  soldiers  and  then  by 
the  regular  troops.  At  last  a  treaty  of  peace  was  made 
and  the  Indians  taken  to  their  reservations,  and  a  pre 
tension  by  the  government  to  pay  the  Indians  for  this 
land,^and  another  pretension  to  pay  the  settlers  for  their 
lost  property  and  time  and,  money  spent  in  the  Indian 
wars. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  NIGHT  OF  HORROR. 

The  bravery  of  a  woman,  a  Mrs.  Harris,  really  held 
the  Indians  at  bay  and  checked  the  massacre  on  that 
terrible  night,  June  — ,  '54.  Her  husband,  standing 
in  the  doorway  of  their  cabin  at  dusk,  was  shot.  His 
undaunted  wife  dragged  his  mutilated  and  dying  body 
into  the  house,  while  the  bullets  from  the  savages  whis 
tled  by  her  head.  As  quick  as  thought  she  shut  and 
fastened  the  door,  and  learning  from  the  lips  of  her 
dying  husband  how  to  load  and  fire  the  rifle,  she  de 
fended  her  little  castle  like  a  heroine.  A  bullet  from 
an  Indian  hit  her  little  boy,  a  lad  of  twelve,  in  the  arm, 
and  before  the  echo  from  his  gun  had  died  away,  she 
sprang  to  the  window  and  taking  an  unerring  aim, 
poured  the  contents  of  her  rifle  into  the  Indian's  body, 
who  with  a  yell  fell  dead  to  the  ground.  The  Indians 
then  fell  back  to  some  bushes  near  by,  where  they  kept 
up  a  deadly  fire  through  the  window  at  any  object  that 
might  be  seen  moving  in  the  house.  For  twelve 
hours  this  brave  woman  stood  there  with  her  tried  and 
trusty  rifle,  loading  and  firing,  while  her  dead  husband 
lay  at  her  feet,  her  only  child,  wounded  and  pale  as  the 
clay-cold  corpse  of  his  father,  molding  the  bullets.  All 
that  fearful  night  the  savages  rent  the  air  with  their 
war-whoops,  and  danced  around  with  their  threatening 
torches.  The  day  at  length  broke  and  found  her  am 
munition  well-nigh  spent,  with  no  hope  of  assistance, 
and  the  awful  fate  staring  her  in  the  face  of  being  burnt 
alive,  with  her  boy,  in  her  house,  when  lo!  upon  the 
hills  she  heard  the  tramp  of  horses  and  beheld  a  troop 
of  mounted  men  dashing  towards  her  house.  On,  on 
they  came  like  the  wind,  finding  for  miles  and  miles  on 


184  THE   HEROINE    OF  '40. 

their  route  waste,  desolation,  smouldering  ruins  and 
charred  and  mutilated  bodies,  till  here,  at  daybreak, 
they  found  this  heroic  woman  and  brave  boy  and  res 
cued  them  from  the  torch,  bullet,  bayonet  and  scalping- 
knife  of  those  murderous  savages. 

And  though  these  things  were  going  on  all  around  her, 
yet  Jean  feared  not  for  the  safety  of  herself  and  babes. 

Indians  have  a  quick  perception ;  they  knew  she  was 
their  friend  and  they  pitied  her.  She  felt  they  would 
not  murder  her.  The  settlers  in  her  neighborhood 
said  she  was  foolhardy,  because  she  chose  to  stay  in 
her  cabin  rather  than  go  into  the  block-house,  and  en 
dure  the  hardships  and  dangers  of  a  frontier  fort  life. 
The  secret  was,  she  had  to  stay.  Mr.  Miser  actually 
refused  to  take  her  and  her  three  little  babies  to  the 
fort,  but  left  her  all  the  days  alone,  while  he  hid  in  the 
bushes  for  safety,  and  when  the  night  came  on,  this 
gallant,  pale-faced  chieftain,  this  brave  husband  and 
father,  would  leave  them  in  the  house  while  he  crawled 
into  a  hollow  log  or  under  the  hay-mow,  so  as  to  be 
free,  in  case  of  an  attack,  to  make  his  escape. 

There  was  not  a  family  left  in  all  that  broad  country 
but  was  compelled  to  go  into  forts  for  protection,  ex 
cepting  Jean  and  her  babes.  And  she,  with  the  protec 
tion  of  one  negro  servant,  a  watch-dog,  and  half  a  dozen 
guns,  remained  alone  in  her  cabin  day  and  night, 
through  all  the  horror  of  this  Indian  war. 

During  the  Rogue  River  war  the  citizens  between 
North  and  South  Umpqua  were  f orted-up  from  ten  days 
to  six  weeks;  the  braver  ones  getting  out  and  risking 
their  lives  to  defend  their  homes  and  their  property. 
The  more  timid  ones  remained  in  the  fort,  which  was 
built  by  digging  trenches  around  a  half  acre  of  ground. 
Trees,  a  foot  in  diameter,  were  chopped  and  set  down 
in  the  trenches  to  form  a  wall  twenty  feet  high.  For 
greater  security,  inside  the  wall,  huts  made  of  split  logs 
were  built. 

We  will  leave  it  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
what  the  horror  of  this  f  orting-up  meant  to  the  pioneer 
settlers. 


A    NIGHT    OF   HORROR.  185 

From  a  hundred  to  a  hundred  and  fifty  people 
found  security  within  those  walls. 

It  was  exceedingly  provoking  and  somewhat  ludi 
crous  to  the  average  citizen  on  the  North  Umpqua  to 
discover,  after  enduring  the  horror  of  the  fort  life,  that 
the  Indians  were  more  afraid  of  the  whites  than  the 
whites  were  of  the  Indians,  who  fled  to  the  mountain 
fastnesses  where  they  had  plenty  of  room,  bright, 
sparkling  waterfalls,  splendid  trout  and  the  grandest 
scenery  in  the  world.  They  feasted  on  elk,  bear,  deer 
and  berries,  returning  to  the  valley  fat  and  sleek,  with 
loads  of  supplies  for  the  winter. 

Weeks  passed  without  any  communication  between 
the  whites  and  this  North  Unipqua  tribe  of  In 
dians. 

A  rumor  had  gone  forth  that  this  tribe  had  gone  to 
the  head  .waters  of  the  Umpqua,  to  be  reinforced  by 
the  Shastas,  a  very  numerous  and  warlike  tribe  of 
Indians  that  never  condescended  to  come  down  to  the 
valley.  They  were  large,  stalwart  men,  of  much  greater 
intelligence  than  the  average  Indian,  and  were  a  race 
of  undaunted  courage  and  bravery,  and  greatly  to  be 
feared. 

The  volunteer  soldiers  becoming  restless,  our  delib 
erate  government  having  at  length  sent  instructions  to 
them  to  make  a  treaty  of  peace,  they  sent  scouts  in 
every  direction  to  try  to  communicate  with  the  Indians, 
but  it  was  useless.  The  soldiers  had  been  camped  for 
six  days  on  Mr.  Miser's  broad  pastures.  The  horses 
were  foraging  off  two  well-stored  barns.  One  fat  steer 
after  another  had  been  slaughtered;  the  stores  of  vege 
tables  were  being  hopelessly  reduced,  and  Miser  said 
he  thought  Jean  was  quite  as  well  protected  as  though 
she  had  gone  to  the  fort,  and  if  he  had  known  the  United 
States  troops  were  to  entertain  such  friendly  and  pro 
tecting  relations  to  him,  he  would  have  preferred  being 
forted.  Miser  held  a  long  confidential  talk  with  the 
captain,  and  told  him  he  would  like  to  have  '  'this  farce 
end."  The  captain  informed  Jean  that  Miser  had  just 
given  him  some  very  important  news — that  the  Indians 


186  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

had  so  much  confidence  in  her  that  they  would  believe 
every  word  she  said. 

"  Yes,  but  how  can  my  voice  reach  them,"  answered 
Jean.  "It  is  not  so  stentorian  that  it  can  be  heard 
twenty  miles  away." 

"  There  was  a  camp-fire  found  this  morning  where 
two  Indians  and  a  squaw  must  have  slept  last  night, 
about  ten  miles  away,  so  if  you  will  consent  to  ride 
at  the  head  of  our  column  this  morning,  we  will  try, 
with  your  presence  and  a  white  flag,  to  gain  their  at 
tention.  These  must  be  Indian  spies  sent  back  to  re 
connoitre,  and  no  doubt  intend,  from  Mr.  Miser's  re 
marks,  to  confer  with  you." 

In  an  hour,  Jean  was  on  her  saddle-horse  and  in  com 
pany  with  the  captain  and  two  lieutenants,  was  gallop 
ing  in  the  direction  of  the  camp-fire.  They  were  clam 
bering  over  a  frightful  gorge  through  a  narrow  foot 
path,  when  a  ball  of  twisted  grass  and  dried  leaves  was 
tossed  into  Jean's  lap.  It  seemed  to  fall  straight 
from  the  sky,  but  on  the  steep  mountain  side  above, 
they  saw  the  bushes  moving,  and  Jean's  clear  voice 
floated  out  in  the  morning  air,  "Alillo!"  and  the  sil 
very,  liquid  tones  came  ringing  down  the  mountain 
side  "  Tillicum,  tillicum!"  (meaning  friend).  And  the 
war  was  ended  and  peace  commenced  in  the  mingling 
of  these  voices.  After  holding  a  long  conference  with 
the  Indians,  Jean  went  back  home  proud,  triumphant, 
and  happy,  with  Alillo  as  a  prisoner  of  war. 

Within  two  days,  every  Indian  on  the  river  was 
brought  in,  and  camped  at  the  head  of  the  valley,  but 
they  utterly  refused  to  hold  a  treaty  with  the  soldiers, 
and  again  the  captain  was  puzzled,  and  held  a  "pow 
wow  "  with  Miser,  and  soon  an  invitation  was  sent  to 
Jean  and  Alillo  to  join  them,  and  at  last  it  was  decided 
that  if  Jean  would  go  to  the  camp,  and  make  a  speech 
to  the  Indians,  telling  them  that  the  government  would 
do  thus  and  so,  they  would  listen.  Accordingly,  next 
morning,  Jean,  with  the  captain,  at  the  head  of  the  col 
umn  of  soldiers,  confronted  an  army  of  braves  who 
stood  with  their  arms  folded  on  their  breasts,  without 


Jean's  deep  sympathy  for  them  moved  her  to  tears,  and  she  knelt  under 
the  white  flag. 


A    NIGHT    OF    HORKOK  187 

moving  a  muscle  or  giving  a  grunt  of  recognition,  as 
stolid  as  iron  posts.  Jean's  deep  sympathy  for  them 
moved  her  to  tears,  and  she  knelt  under  the  white  flag, 
the  cool  morning  air  fanning  the  brows  of  that  column 
of  stalwart  red  men,  facing  their  pale-faced  brothers, 
listening  to  the  words  of  the  one  white  person  of  the 
white  race,  who  would,  they  believed,  speak  the  truth. 
But  her  prayer  to  Almighty  God,  pronounced  in  their 
presence,  proved  how  utterly  void  of  truth  she  believed 
her  words  to  be. 

"  Oh,  Almighty  God,  Father  alike  of  the  red  and  the 
white  man,  thou  hast  the  power  to  compel  the  men  of 
our  mighty  nation  to  keep  the  treaty  now  about  to  be 
signed  between  these  two  nations  of  red  and  white 
men.  Grant,  oh,  God,  that  my  words  may  be  kept — 
in  letter  and  in  deed,  truthfully  kept."  And  a  clear, 
distinct  "Amen!"  as  of  one  voice,  was  pronounced  by 
the  column  of  men.  The  Indians  bowed  their  heads. 

Jean,  rising,  went  on  with  her  speech.  She  told  the 
Indians  that  the  government  had  promised  to  buy  their 
land,  paying  them  so  much  annuity.  But  the  Indians 
were  to  leave  their  homes,  and  go  to  Grand  Bound 
Valley,  in  Yam  Hill  county,  where  there  was  already  a 
reservation. 

The  treaty  was  signed  by  all  except  old  Chief  Nezic, 
who  buried  his  face  in  the  sand,  telling  the  young  men 
that  they  could  sign  it,  but  he  could  not  sell  the  graves 
of  his  fathers  for  money,  nor  blankets,  nor  horses,  nor 
food;  he  wanted  to  be  buried  there  with  his  fathers. 
The  young  bucks  said  they  had  no  notion  of  being 
buried;  that  the  whites  traveled,  and  they  could. 

The  government  then  sent  teams,  and  removed  the 
Indians,  with  all  their  household  accouterments,  to  the 
reservation — dogs,  ponies,  guns,  everything — one  hun 
dred  and  fifty  miles  away.  When  they  started,  they 
made  the  valleys  ring  with  the  same  funeral  chant  that 
they  make  over  the  dead.  It  was  something  terrific, 
that  last  howl  that  the  Indians  ever  made  in  that 
Umpqua  Valley.  It  rang  out  in  the  crisp  morning  air, 


188  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

that  sad  November  day.  The  march  was  terrible  to 
them,  leaving  the  homes  that  had  been  theirs  through 
all  time  that  their  stories  or  memories  could  retain. 
Another,  stronger  —  a  white — race  had  dispossessed 
them. 

Jean's  brothers,  Will  Ames  and  Dan  Murdstone,  were 
in  the  Cayoose  and  Bannock  Indian  wars,  fighting 
every  year,  from  the  first  settlement  of  the  country  until 
peace  reigned  in  every  hamlet,  hill-top,  valley  and  vil 
lage,  from  end  to  end  of  the  Pacific  Coast — faithful, 
valiant,  volunteers,  soldiers,  cavalrymen  riding  their 
own  horses,  wearing  clothing  earned  by  the  hard  toil 
of  frontier  life,  buying  their  own  supplies,  using  their 
own  guns,  and  supplying  their  own  ammunition.  And 
our  much-loved  Uncle  Sam  is  to-day  in  the  peaceful 
possession  of  all  this  vast  domain,  wrested  by  the 
bravery  of  her  brothers  and  other  early  pioneers  who 
risked  their  lives  and  fortunes,  and  to-day  lie  in  peace 
ful,  unmarked,  unhonored  graves,  dying  in  the  prime 
of  their  early  manhood  while  protecting  the  frontier 
settlements  from  the  Indians.  Has  the  government 
ever  paid  one  dollar  of  its  debt?  We  hope  some  day 
it  may,  for  the  memory  of  those  brave  boys  who 
kept  their  war-scrip  so  sacredly.  It  was  high  treason, 
in  their  opinion,  to  think  that  the  government  would 
not  faithfully  pay  its  Indian  war  debts. 

Jean  heard  this  reiterated  a  thousand  times,  and 
her  blood  boiled  with  the  memory  that  her  broth 
ers  were  lying  in  their  peaceful  graves,  having  spent 
their  lives  in  the  sacred  cause  of  peace  and  the  secu 
rity  of  their  homes;  and  dying,  God  intrusted  their 
orphan  children  to  Jean  to  rear  and  educate. 

The  government  cannot  lay  claim  to  any  territory 
over  which  war  was  ever  waged  under  the  broad  canopy 
of  heaven,  that  is  equal  in  value  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  and 
this  being  true,  so  honorable  a  debt  should  have  been 
liquidated  long  ago  by  our  honorable  government. 
This  is  history. 

The  volunteer  soldiers  should  be  paid  for  their  time, 


A   NIGHT   OF    HORROR.  189 

for  the  defense  of  their  homes,  and  for  the  wresting  of 
these  vast  landed  estates  from  their  original  owners,  the 
Indians,  and  securing  them  peaceably  to  the  govern 
ment. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

"  I   WILL   STILL    BE    MYSELF." 

Now  that  the  Indians  had  gone,  Mr.  Cursica  Miser 
immediately  gave  his  whole  war  ability  to  his  family — 
not  that  he  had  ever  at  any  time  distinguished  himself 
in  any  open  warfare  with  the  Indians;  but  Jean  soon 
discovered  that  the  presence  of  the  Indians  had  been  a 
great  check  to  Mr.  Miser's  indulging  his  propensity  to 
cruelty  to  his  family.  His  cruelties  and  constant  ill- 
usage  at  length  resulted  in  an  overwhelming  disaster, 
not  to  the  family  peace,  for  it  never  had  any,  but  to  the 
family  union. 

The  Indian  boy  servant,  Caweecha,  who  would  not 
consent  to  leave  his  mistress,  when  the  Indians  went 
to  the  reservation,  was  out  milking  the  cows.  The 
family  were  seated  at  the  breakfast  table,  which  was 
set  in  the  middle  of  the  cabin  floor,  that  was  orna 
mented  with  a  variety  of  handsome  skins.  A  bank  of 
wild  roses,  fragrant  and  blooming,  with  hanging  vines, 
wild  grasses,  and  pine  cones,  stood  at  the  left  on  a  rude 
bench.  A  small  mirror  ornamented  the  mantel,  be 
neath  which  burned  a  cheerful  fire  in  the  wide-mouthed 
fire-place.  A  few  draperies  hung  here  and  there  about 
the  room,  and  a  rude  book-shelf  that  Jean  herself  had 
constructed  contained  a  few  well-thumbed  books  of 
standard  authors,  most  of  which  were  borrowed  from 
a  neighboring  library — Mr.  Dan.  Stewart's.  The  little 
twin  girls  sat  opposite  Jean  and  her  baby  boy.  Mr. 
Miser,  at  the  head  of  the  table,  was  swallowing  his 
breakfast  like  a  ravenous  wolf,  when  his  son  and  heir 
to  his  vast  estates  espied  the  breakfast  disappearing  so 
rapidly,  and  not  being  old  enough  to  express  himself, 
made  desperate  efforts  to  make  himself  understood  by 


I  WILL  STILL  BE  MYSELF.  191 

'•>.  '     |    -V    .     -•  I 

violent  kicks  and  gestures,  signifying  that  he  wanted 
an  equal  amount  of  food,  whereupon  Jean  gave  him  an 
egg.  But  he  wanted  more,  and  she  gave  him  another. 
It  was  clear  that  the  ambition  of  the  young  man  knew 
no  bounds.  He  wanted  everything  oa  the  table  put  on 
his  plate.  His  mother,  Jean,  was  trying  with  firm 
though  gentle  tones  to  quell  the  disturbance. 

Mr.  Miser  arose  unceremoniously,  put  on  his  hat,  and 
left  the  room.  Jean  supposed  he  had  gone  to  his 
business.  The  baby  boy  was  now  quietly  finishing  his 
breakfast.  Mr.  Miser  returned  looking  like  a  demon, 
with  a  tough,  thrifty  haael  three-quarters  of  an  inch 
thiok  and  five  feet  long.  He  walked  hastily  to  the 
baby,  snatching  him  from  his  chair  and  holding  him  by 
one  arm  a  foot  or  two  from  the  floor,  and  after  a  few 
withes  on  the  back  of  the  baby,  Jean,  not  being  able  to 
stop  him,  and  knowing  the  child  would  die  in  Miser's 
hands,  she  bent  over  it  to  protect  it  from  the  blows, 
and  the  fierce  strokes  that  fell  on  her  neck  and  should 
ers  made  her  thankful  in  her  heart  that  she  could  shield 
her  child  from  such  agony.  Each  blow  from  the  infu 
riated  monster  was  like  a  knife  thrust.  When  the 
stick  had  been  beaten  to  splinters,  he  stopped  and  not 
till  then;  and  when  Jean  could  recover  her  breath  to 
speak,  she  said:  "  Your  blows  have  divorced  ns! "  And 
no  truer  words  did  her  lips  ever  utter. 

For  awhile  she  forgot  her  own  misery  in  her  pity  for 
her  child  writhing  in  pain.  Miser  left  the  house,  and 
Jean  had  no  time  for  tears  that  day.  She  had  suffering 
to  relieve  that  is  not  often  witnessed.  She  did  not  re 
alize  the  severity  of  her  own  wounds  until  she  had  tried 
to  lie  down  at  night,  and  found  it  impossible.  The 
child's  life  was  despaired  of  for  davs. 

Caweecha  came  in  with  the  pails  brimful  of  milk, 
and  glancing  at  the  baby  who  was  writhing  in  excru 
ciating  pain,  sprang  quickly  to  Jean's  side,  asking  in 
deepest  tones  of  alarm  and  sympathy:  "Burned? 

"Gods,  yes,  Caweecha,  burned!"  she  answered. 

Miser  had  thrown  the  club  into  the  fire  and  jumped 
on  his  horse  and  rode  away.  He  told  Caweecha  he  was 


192  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

going  to  Eoseburg,  and  Jean  very  indiscreetly  said,  "I 

wish  he  would  never  return." 

In  an  instant  Caweecha,  with  the  quick  perception 

an  Indian,  said,  "Miser  did  it.     Me  kill  him!    Me 

heap  kill!" 
Jean's  soul  was  wild  with  passion,  and  while  she 

would  have  been  glad  to  see  the  man  dead,  yet  she  was 

horrified  at  the  thought  of  stirring  her  faithful  servant 

to  kill  him.     While  smarting  under  his  stinging  lash, 

she  could  lie  to  screen  his  life.     She  knew  if  her  servant 

got  an  inkling  of  the  blood  trickling  through  her  dress 

that  nothing  would  save  Miser's  life  from  his  revenge. 

Caweecha  brought  her  water  and  asked  to  go  for  her 

neighbor,  Mrs.  Trent. 

No;  no  neighbor  to  see  her  bleeding  back!    She 

could  not  bear  that  humility.     And  Caweecha  again 

looking  searchingly  into  her  eyes,  said : 

"  Miser  did  it.     Me  know.     He  heap  look  mesacha.* 

Me  cumtux."t 
This  was  in  '56.     The  blood  of  the  nation  was  not 

yet  flowing  to  free  negro  slaves. 

Under  some  pretense  the  faithful  Caweecha  must  be 
sent  away  while  Jean  could  dress  the  wounds  of  herself 
and  child.  She  told  him  to  go  and  saddle  his  horse,  as 
she  might  need  to  send  him  for  the  doctor.  Indeed,  it 
seemed  quite  probable.  She  then  cut  the  child's 
clothes  from  his  arms,  and  hastily  dressed  his  wounds. 
She  as  quickly  tore  off  her  own  blood-stained  clothes 
and  hid  them  away,  as  though  she  were  the  murderer 
and  had  done  this  brutal  deed.  Her  pride  was  work 
ing  her  a  great  wrong  by  covering  up  the  crime,  but 
she  was  a  child  and  did  not  know  it.  Besides,  she 
thought  the  taunts  and  jeers  of  the  world  would  be  more 
than  her  lacerated  flesh  and  wounded  heart  could  en 
dure.  She  could  bear  this  quietly,  and  she  would. 
She  was  the  metal  they  make  heroines  of.  She  said  St. 
Paul  had  endured  stripes  without  a  murmur,  and  she 
could. 

She  told  Miser,  on  his  return,  to  occupy  another 

*Mesacha,  meaning  "bad."    tCumtux,  "  to  understand." 


I  WILL  STILL  BE  MYSELF.  193 

room,  away  from  her  and  the  children,  which  he  did 
without  one  word  ever  passing  between  them  on  the 
subject.  They  were  divorced.  She  still  lived  under 
the  same  roof,  but  found  life  much  more  endurable 
since  the  beating  than  it  had  ever  been  while  she  was 
the  monster's  wife. 

She  remained  in  the  cabin  a  year  and  a  half  in  daily 
fear  of  her  life,  thanking  God  for  the  privilege  of  caring 
for  her  children.  She  trembled  as  one  standing  over 
an  earthquake,  knowing  full  well  there  must  come  an 
end  to  her  present  life.  Miser  rarely  spoke  to  her,  or 
took  any  notice  of  the  children.  She  was  only  too  con 
tent  to  be  spared  the  attention  of  the  brute. 

Jean  did  not  let  her  lips  pronounce  a  word  of  his  un- 
kindness  to  her.  She  knew  how,  like  a  blighting  mildew, 
it  had  withered  every  bright  hope  of  her  young,  buoyant 
heart.  And  how  could  her  mother,  who  had  passed 
through  so  many  bitter  trials,  bear  to  know  that  she 
was  not  happy.  No !  she  would  let  this  aching  grief, 
like  corroding  rust,  eat  out  her  heart's  core  before  she 
would  add  another  woe  to  those  already  there,  and  with 
more  bravery  than  it  ever  took  to  face  a  cannon-ball, 
she  said  mentally,  "I  will  be  brave  and  stand  face  to 
face  with  stubborn  fate."  She  made  a  desperate  strug 
gle  to  conceal  her  real  feelings  from  every  one,  and 
tried  hard  to  do  each  task  assigned  her  as  cheerfully 
as  possible.  Jean  had  friends,  with  hearts  deep  and 
true  as  ever  throbbed  in  human  breast,  and  though  her 
lips  spoke  never  a  syllable  of  his  cruelties  to  her,  yet 
every  one  knew  she  was  a  slave. 

Though  she  tried  hard  to  conceal  her  real  life,  and  to 
be  to  the  world  a  living  lie,  yet  she  could  not;  for 
looks  speak  the  truth  louder  than  tongues  ever  do. 
And  when  in  1857,  she  rose  in  her  puny  might  and 
vowed  she  would  be  free,  and  be  no  longer  Miser's 
legalized  slave,  do  you  think  she  had  not  counted  the 
cost? — ay,  the  cost  of  having  her  innocent  babes  torn 
from  her  crushed  and  bleeding  heart  and  given  into 
the  custody  of  the  monster  who  had  nearly  killed  her 
13 


194  THE    HEKOINE    OF  '49. 

and  her  child?  Strong  men,  gray-haired  men,  came  to 
her  convulsed  with  grief,  tears  falling  like  rain,  warn 
ing  her  against  such  a  step,  saying  the  law  would  show 
her  no  mercy,  that  her  children  would  be  taken  from 
her,  her  character  destroyed,  and  she,  with  a  broken 
heart,  blighted  health,  and  defamed  reputation,  turned 
out  into  the  cold  charities  of  a  selfish  world  to  die,  or 
perhaps  end  her  days  in  a  house  of  prostitution.  She 
thanked  them  for  that  last  word,  and  said : 

"I  end  my  days  in  such  a  place!  God  never  made 
me  to  fill  such  a  position.  All  the  laws  and  law-makers 
on  earth  can't  ruin  me.  I  will  still  be  myself. " 

' '  Yes,  but  your  husband  has  all  the  money,  and  he 
will  use  it  against  you,"  they  said. 

"He  will  not  try  to  injure  the  character  of  the 
mother  of  his  innocent  babes,  will  he  ?  " 

"  Yes,  he  will,  and  mark  the  words,  he  will  succeed." 

"And  this  is  the  fiend  you  would  have  me  live  with, 
and  bear  children  for  a  liie-tiine." 

"Yes,  'tis  better  than  to  try  to  escape.  Society  will 
thrust  you  out;  you  will  be  a  doomed  woman;  your 
life  won't  be  long,  and  'tis  better  to  bear  it  all  quietly 
and  sink  into  an  early  grave;  there  you  will  find  peace. 

"  I  do  not  fear  to  die,"  she  said.  "  I  have  longed  for 
death,  but  now  I  will  live;  the  world  needs  me.  I  will 
first  free  myself,  then  I  will  espouse  the  cause  of  my 
oppressed  sisters.  I  will  be  an  abolitionist,  and  work 
for  the  abolition  of  white  woman  slavery.  I  should 
despise  myself  if  I  should  sit  down  here  to  die,  a  stupid 
slave,  an  ignominious  death.  No,  I  will  live,  and  you 
mark  my  ivords,  if  the  laws  of  my  country  treat  me  as 
you  say  they  will,  I  will  bear  it;  but  the  world  shall 
know  it!  If  I  am  to  be  a  martyr,  I  will  be  a  heroine 
also.  What!  shall  I  live  on  the  life  I've  been  living, 
continue  to  wear  out  my  life  in  bondage,  and  leave  the 
same  fate  to  my  daughters  ?  " 


CHAPTEE  XXXII. 

A  YISITOB. 

Jean  had  scarcely  recovered  from  the  effects  of  the 
conflict  with  Miser,  when  one  day.  Mr.  Dan  Stewart 
called,  accompanied  by  a  friend,  a  gentleman  of  leisure, 
who  had  come  to  while  away  the  summer  months  with 
him  at  his  camp,  ten  miles  away,  on  the  river.  Mrs. 
Stewart  would  join  them  in  a  month,  when  the  pleasure 
party  would  be  complete.  Mrs.  Stewart's  niece  and  an 
unmarried  sister  would  accompany  her,  riding,  boating, 
fishing,  and  the  general  fun  of  summer  camp-life  in 
the  mountains,  to  be  enjoyed  by  the  party.  Mr.  Stewart 
was  a  gentleman  of  rare  ability.  He  enjoyed  a  good 
book  as  he  did  a  fine  landscape.  Sitting  in  his  tent 
door,  like  Jacob  of  old,  with  his  cattle  on  a  thousand 
hills,  the  sun's  low  beams  gilding  hill-top  and  mountain 
with  radiant  splendor;  the  dark  waters  of  the  North 
TJmpqua  rolling  over  its  rocky  bed,  or  winding  in  and 
out  of  some  steep  wall  that  pent  it  in  so  narrow  a  chan 
nel  that  it  looked  like  a  silvery  thread,  wound  in  and 
out  from  valley,  hill  and  mountain;  for  within  the  scope 
of  the  eye,  there  was  diversified  country  with  beauty 
and  grandeur  rarely  to  be  met  with  even  in  nature's 
grand  panorama,  whose  wealth  of  wondrous  beauty  had 
been  flung  with  the  prodigal  hand  of  the  Almighty — 
Stewart  would  almost  shed  tears,  in  his  rapture  over 
this  landscape,  that  he  had  not  studied  painting  in  his 
younger  days,  so  that  he  might  catch  the  marvelous 
beauty  on  canvas;  but  alas,  for  the  golden  opportuni 
ties  squandered  in  youth!  The  gentleman  who  called 
with  Mr.  Stewart  was  of  medium  stature,  light  brown 
hair,  deep  blue  eyes,  a  Grecian  nose,  broad  chin,  full 
round  lips,  chiseled  to  perfection.  You  knew  the  mo- 


196  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

ment  you  saw  the  man  that  candor,  purity  of  sentiment, 
and  honest  purpose,  were  the  ruling  powers  of  his  mind. 
Mr.  Stewart's  leading  in  the  brilliant  conversation  that 
he  and  Jean  indulged  in,  for  the  next  half  hour,  gave 
his  friend,  a  man  of  more  depth  and  reserve  force, 
little  opportunity  for  showing  Jean  what  kind  of  man 
he  was.  But  for  all  that,  from  the  first  moment  their 
eyes  met,  a  subtle  power  had  taken  possession  of  her; 
she  longed  to  know  the  man,  as  she  had  never  longed 
to  know  a  human  being  before  in  her  life.  She  felt  if  she 
could  know  that  man,  she  could  tell  him  her  hidden 
griefs.  She  was  sure  the  tear-stain  on  her  face,  hidden  by 
smiles  and  gay  words  from  Mr.  Stewart,  were  observed 
by  the  stranger. 

An  hour  after,  when  they  rose  to  go,  it  was  like 
parting  with  a  friend  she  had  known  and  loved,  and 
she  would  never  see  him  again !  Was  fate  so  cruel? 
As  they  were  about  to  go,  the  stranger  pulled  a  novel 
from  his  coat-pocket,  saying: 

"Your  friend,  Mr.  Stewart,  would  like  to  read  this 
book,  perhaps?" — adding  to  Jean:  "  We  have  just 
finished  it;  we  shall  enjoy  talking  it  over  when  we  meet 
again." 

It  was  "  The  Tower  of  London,"  by  Dumas. 

Her  heart  gave  a  great  bound  for  joy — that  he  wished 
to  see  her  again.  This  was  rapture.  Jean,  wholly  un 
accustomed  to  joy  of  any  kind,  was  about  to  despair 
of  the  world  holding  that  commodity  for  her.  As  the 
man  held  out  the  book,  a  thrill  of  pain,  joy,  pleasure — 
what  was  it? — pervaded  her  whole  being.  It  was 
bliss  to  her  to  know  there  was  love  in  the  world.  She 
took  the  book;  her  eyes  met  the  stranger's;  the  gentle 
men  bowed,  were  on  their  horses,  and  gone  in  a 
moment. 

She  stood  holding  the  book,  riveted  to  the  spot.  It 
was  transformed  to  the  holy  of  all  holies,  the  place 
she  had  met  the  stranger,  flow  long  she  stood,  trans 
figured,  glorified  by  God's  law  of  holy  love,  she  never 
knew.  From  that  time  she  was  a  woman,  thrilled 
with  the  power  of  love.  She  thought  of  nothing  for 


A  VISITOR.  19? 

days,  only  that  she  was  in  ecstasy,  that  she  existed. 
Some  day  she  might  be  a  widow;  then  if  she  should 
meet  the  handsome  stranger,  who  called  that  day,  the 
horror  of  all  she  had  passed  through  would  only  en 
hance  her  pleasure  when  she  had  some  one  to  love, 
to  speak  words  of  sympathy  and  tenderness  to  her. 

Love !  oh,  life !  oh  bliss !  Would  such  a  day  ever  come, 
hemmed  in  with  every  obstacle  to  such  a  possible  end 
ing.  Then  her  thoughts  would  turn  back  to  the  dull, 
sober  truth,  the  hateful  reality,  and  sighing,  she  would 
say  to  herself;  "  Bright  thoughts  are  better  for  me,  and 
as  God  has  given  them  me  and  a  brain  to  think  with 
that  nobody  can  control,  I  will  do  as  I  please  with  my 
thoughts.  If  'tis  wicked  to  wish  to  be  happy,  then  I  am 
going  to  be  wicked.  I  am  going  to  think  of  love  and 
what  the  bliss  might  be  if  I  had  a  husband  to  love  me. 
If  when  a  girl  at  my  mother's  the  stranger  had  called, 
what  would  life  have  been,  when  only  to  think  of  it 
now  is  such  joy."  How  glorious  to  be  relieved  of  the 
companionship  of  Mr.  Miser.  He  no  longer  takes  the 
trouble  to  inform  her,  every  few  days,  that  she  has  not 
as  much  sense  as  a  "yaller  dog,"  no  longer  tells  her  he 
will  tie  a  stone  about  her  neck  and  drown  her  in  the 
river,  no  longer  slides  stealthily  by  her  side  and 
familiarly  pinches  the  flesh  on  her  arm  till  'tis  black  as 
a  coal  for  days.  All  these  little  attentions  are  dis 
pensed  with,  to  her  great  joy.  A  dignified  silence 
reigns  between  them,  except  when  someone  is  by,  and 
then,  only  to  ward  off  suspicion,  a  few  words  pass  be 
tween  them.  She  is  in  delight  to  be  a  child  with  her 
children.  She  weaves  fancies  that  she  and  they  will 
grow  up  together,  possibly  go  to  school  together.  She 
will  be  as  good  as  gold  looking  after  every  interest  on  the 
great  ranch;  money  is  pouring  in,  like  golden  streams. 
They  must  be  immensely  wealthy  if  this  continues, 
and  in  time  she  will  be  a  woman,  with  a  woman's  sense. 
She  has  read  somewhere  that  intellect  rules,  and  she  is 
beginning  to  find  that  she  has  rather  a  bright  mind. 
And  if  all  this  be  true,  she  says,  "There  must  be  hope 
ahead  for  me." 


198  THE    HEROINE!    OF  '49. 

One  day,  however,  Miser  asked  her  to  go  boat-riding. 
She  looked  up  in  astonishment.  His  eyes  fell,  showing 
plainly  some  evil  intention,  and  he  walked  quickly  away  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  changed  his  mind.  They  did  not  go 
that  day.  Jean  thought  nothing  of  this  the  first  day, 
and  would  have  gone  had  he  persisted.  The  next  day, 
when  he  asked  again,  she  declined  with  some  trivial  ex 
cuse,  but  her  suspicions  were  aroused.  When  he  came 
the  third  day  with  the  old-time  sinister  smile,  she  re 
fused.  He  insisted,  and  was  about  to  use  force  to  take 
her  into  the  boat,  together  with  the  three  children.  Her 
loud  screams  brought  a  man  who  was  chopping  timber 
across  the  river,  to  her  assistance,  and  the  would-be 
murderer  slunk  away. 

Jean  now  knew  it  was  impossible  for  her  to  remain 
there  any  longer.  She  took  her  babe  in  her  arms,  and 
moving  toward  the  glass  to  see  if  her  countenance  be 
trayed  the  tc  rrible  agony  of  soul  that  stirred  within  her 
at  the  thought  of  being  separated  an  hour  from  her  darl 
ing  children;  her  attention  was  drawn  toward  her  sweet 
little  five-year-old  Ella,  almost  her  second  self,  who, 
fearful  of  some  impending  crisis,  had  climbed  upon 
a  stool  near  the  glass,  and  seemed  the  picture  of 
despair,  as  she  said  in  accents  of  the  deepest  sadness, 
"O,  mother,  take  me,  too!"  Jean  saw  only  her  f^e, 
and  could  never  forget  her  looks.  It  seemed  to  Jean 
her  words  would  kill  her.  Her  looks,  so  deep,  so  full 
of  terrible  meaning,  as  though  she  "knew  it  all;"  the 
tone  so  tenderly  beseeching,  "  O,  mother,  take  me,  too !" 
The  sound  died  away  with  the  moment,  but  the  im 
pression  in  her  heart  could  never  die.  Had  she  wavered 
now  in  her  resolution  and  stayed  a  few  days  longer,  she 
must  have  sunk  down  to  a  watery  grave.  She  was  con 
vinced  now  that  Miser's  thought,  given  at  first  only  as 
a  threat  to  make  her  fear  him,  had  crystalized  into  a 
determination  to  act  upon  it,  and  not  only  tie  a  stone 
about  her  neck,  but  to  drown  her  children  with  her,  as 
he  had  threatened  to  do  a  thousand  times  during  the 
four  years  they  had  lived  on  the  banks  of  the  dark,  flow 
ing  waters  of  the  Umpqua  river.  But  she  must  live — 


A  VISITOR. 

live  for  her  children.  Life  seemed  worth  all  it  would 
cost  her.  In  the  family  of  a  friend  she  found  shelter 
for  a  short  time,  until  Thomas  Ames  came  to  take  her 
and  her  children  to  her  mother's. 

Miser  compelled  Jean  to  see  a  lawyer  with  him  about 
getting  a  divorce  before  he  would  allow  her  to  take  the 
children  and  go  to  her  mother's.  So  they  went. 


CHAPTEE  XXXIII. 

LAWYER  GOBBS. 

The  lawyer's  office  was  in  the  back  room  of  an  old 
wooden  building  used  as  a  hotel.  The  great  man, 
lawyer  Gobbs  of  Roseburg,  since  governor  of  Oregon, 
sat  with  his  legs  crossed,  as  if  to  assist  in  holding  up 
the  ponderous  proportions  above.  He  had  a  large 
frame,  but  it  looked  diminutive  when  compared  with 
his  mammoth  stomach,  which  seemed  to  swell  out  like 
a  gigantic  protuberance  on  the  side  of  a  gnarled  oak- 
tree.  His  eyebrows  were  dense,  coarse,  brown  and 
shaggy,  and  he  looked  to  Jean  as  though  he  might 
have  been  at  least  half  brother  to  the  grizzly  bear 
that  roams  the  Sierras  and  had  just  gorged  himself 
on  an  unprotected  ranch  of  Digger  Indian  children. 
He  seemed  to  understand  their  errand,  and  address 
ing  his  conversation  to  Miser,  at  length  asked,  "  What 
is  the  trouble  between  you?"  Miser  replied,  "Ask 
her,  she  is  the  one;  I  am  not  dissatisfied,  she  is  the 
one."  The  lawyer  took  no  notice  of  Jean.  She  didn't 
carry  the  purse.  But  annoyed  at  Miser's  answer,  and 
knitting  his  shaggy  brow,  queried  again,  "Is  there 
not  some  cause  for  jealousy?  I  see  there  is  a  great 
disparity  in  your  years."  Miser,  not  understanding  how 
necessary  a  plea  of  adultery  is  in  an  action  for  a  suc 
cessful  divorce,  for  once  told  the  truth,  and  growing 
incoherent,  he  swore  there  was  no  cause  for  jealousy, 
and  the  man  that  would  accuse  him  of  such  a  thing 
was  a  liar.  At  this,  the  lawyer  grew  more  perplexed, 
and  taking  rapid  strides  across  the  room,  that  shook 
the  whole  house,  while  a  new  thought  lighted  up  his 
dull,  phlegmatic  face,  he  said,  motioning  his  finger  to 
Miser,  "Come with  me;"  and  they  withdrew  to  another 


LAWYER    GOBBS.  201 

apartment  for  a  private  interview.  In  a  few  minutes 
they  returned.  Jean  left  the  office,  and  Miser  fol 
lowed  her,  saying  he  wanted  to  talk  with  her  a  little 
privately,  and  proceeding,  he  said:  "  The  lawyer  tells 
me  that  neither  of  us  can  get  a  divorce  unless  I  can 
prove  that  you  have  been  false  to  your  marriage  vows." 
W  ith  the  blood  standing  still  in  her  veins,  Jean  replied, 
"  You  can  never  do  that." 

"  I  know  it,  and  I  told  the  lawyer  so,  that  you  are  as 
pure  as  an  angel,  and  that  your  name  is  untarnished. 
'I  will  arrange  that  matter,' the  lawyer  said.  'If  we 
oan't  prove  any  actual  guilt,  'tis  easy  to  hunt  up  slan 
derous  stories  to  blacken  women's  characters;  we  al 
ways  do  in  such  cases;  'tis  nothing.  You  get  some  of 
your  hired  men,  or  your  neighbors,  anybody,  to  start 
the  reports,  and  I  will  see  that  they  are  circulated.  I 
keep  a  hotel,  and  I  will  make  them  the  table-talk  among 
my  boarders.  You  know  how  ready  men  are  to  believe 
anything  that  is  said  against  the  character  of  any 
woman.  If  we  can  make  it  appear  that  your  wife  has 
been  in  the  least  indiscreet,  we'll  have  no  trouble  in 
getting  you  a  divorce,  and  giving  the  children  to  you. 
This  is  the  cheapest.  'Twill  save  all  your  money  for 
you,  and  in  fact  is  the  only  practical  course  to  pursue.* 

This  was  the  plot  of  the  lawyer,  as  near  as  Miser 
could  tell  it,  and  then  he  said  to  Jean,  placing  his 
thumb  firmly  over  his  finger:  "  I've  got  you  right  under 
my  thumb,  and  I  will  do  with  you  as  I  please,  unless 
you  drop  this  thing,  and  go  home  and  live  with  me  as 
my  wife." 

No  language  can  express  the  utter  contempt  she  felt 
for  him  then.  If  she  hated  him  before,  she  despised 
herself  for  ever  having  seen  such  an  unprincipled 
wretch,  and  with  indignation  flashing  in  her  eyes,  she 
said,  "You  can't  do  so  damning  a  deed,  and  if  there 
are  such  foul  fiends  on  earth  I  want  to  know  it."  To 
live  with  such  an  inhuman  monster  would  be  like 
throwing  innocent  babes  into  the  jaws  of  a  crocodile  to 
appease  his  wrath.  Her  first  impulse  was  to  fly  from 
his  presence.  Then  came  those  piteous,  beseeching 


202  THE    HEROINE    OP  '49. 

tones  —  "0,  mother,  take  me,  too!"  and  the  lit 
tle  arms,  "  all  white  and  dimpled,"  stretched  out 
so  imploringly  to  her  for  help — and  she  thought 
of  the  terrible  desolation  of  their  lives  without  a 
mother's  care.  They  might  be  fed  and  clothed  by 
other  hands.  But  oh,  who  could  supply  them  with 
their  God-given  heritage — a  mother's  love?  "It  is 
not  all  of  life  to  live." 

It  was  in  that  hour  that  she  found  she  could  talk; 
and  there,  on  her  horse,  she  plead  with  him,  the 
father  of  her  children;  earnestly  and  well  she  told  him 
that  the  lawyer  was  a  demon  in  human  form,  and  if  he 
gave  heed  to  such  plottings,  he,  and  not  she,  would  be 
the  ruined  one,  that  he  would  take  his  money  and  give 
him  nothing  for  it. 

"Any  man  that  will  talk,"  said  Jean,  "  as  you  say 
that  lawyer  did  to  you,  will  do  anything  for  money.  I 
wonder  that  you  can  trust  him." 

Then  Jean  tried  to  make  him  understand  how  eager 
and  hungry  the  poor  fellow  Gobbs  was  for  the  case; 
that  he  cared  for  nothing  but  his  gold.  She  knew  she 
could  touch  his  heart  only  through  his  pocket;  so  she 
showed  him  how  much  less  expense  'twould  be  for  her 
to  take  the  children  to  her  mother's  than  for  him  to 
have  them  taken  care  of.  He  consented,  and  she  took 
her  children  and  came  out  of  the  wilderness  a  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  to  her  mother's.  But  the  little  leaven 
started  there  in  that  law  office  had  leavened  the  whole 
lump.  From  that  bear's  den,  in  every  direction,  the 
very  air  was  filled  with  the  vilest,  blackest  tales  of 
slander,  which  had  even  reached  her  poor  old  mother 
before  her.  It  was  midnight  when  she  reached  home. 
Her  mother  came  out  to  meet  her  in  her  night-clothes. 
For  a  moment  she  held  her  at  arm's  length,  as  if  by 
her  searching  glances,  even  in  the  moonbeams'  pale 
light,  she  would  read  the  secrets  of  her  soul.  The 
doomed  woman  that  her  gray-haired  friends  had  warned 
her  that  she  would  become,  flashed  through  her  mind 
as  a  sickening  certainty,  as  she  said:  "Oh  God!  mother, 


LAWYER    GOBBS.  203 

I  am  as  pure  as  when  you  received  me  from  His  hands," 
And  they  both  fell  to  the  ground  and  thanked  God  that 
it  was  so. 

Jean  was  now  safe  at  home  in  the  society  of  her  family, 
with  her  precious  children  by  her  side.  They  were 
doubly  dear  to  her  now,  as  every  day  the  horror 
was  hanging  over  her  that  they  might  be  taken  from 
her.  At  last,  her  worst  fears  were  realized,  as 
Miser  soon  came,  like  a  heathen  monster,  and  tore 
her  little  children  from  the  arms  of  their  wretched 
mother,  in  spite  of  their  piteous  cries  to  stay,  and 
dragged  them  back  to  his  home  in  the  mountains.  He 
wrote  to  the  Atlantic  States  in  succession  for  his  mother, 
aunt,  cousins,  sister,  and  niece,  who,  each  in  turn, 
tried  to  live  with  him,  but  soon  found  they  could  not, 
and  left  him  alone  in  his  meanness.  He  then  sent  for 
a  discarded  brother-in-law,  who  was  already  in  a  de 
cline,  and  needed  constant  care  himself.  There,  in 
that  old  log-cabin,  without  one  comfort  in  life,  with 
none  but  this  feeble  old  man  to  care  for  them,  did  the 
court  decide  that  the  children  should  stay,  and  after 
that  old  man,  just  tottering  on  the  brink  of  the  grave, 
had  sworn  falsely  in  court,  had  acted  as  agent  in  dis 
tributing  bribes  among  other  hired  witnesses,  and 
done  the  house  work  for  Miser  and  his  children,  deed 
ed  his  three  hundred  and  twenty  acre  land  claim,  and 
given  him  all  his  personal  property;  yet,  when  he  was 
of  no  further  service  to  him,  he  was  driven  out,  not 
withstanding  he  had  a  writtten  agreement  for  shelter, 
care  and  nursing  in  Miser's  house,  for  his  few  declining 
years. 

The  poor  old  victim  begged  his  way  to  Mrs.  Murd- 
stone,  saying  he  could  not  die  in  peace  until  he  had 
sworn  to  a  confession  of  what  he  and  others  had  done 
to  effect  her  daughter's  ruin.  Mrs.  Murdstone  took 
him  in,  and  cared  for  him  in  his  last  hours,  like  a  sis 
ter.  He  died,  and  the  Odd  Fellows  gave  his  body  a 
brotherly  burial,  but  the  affidavit  from  his  dying  lips, 
sworn  to  before  a  justice  of  the  peace,  still  lives. 

After  her   children  were  torn  from  her  and  taken 


204  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

back  to  the  hut,  Jean  soon  followed,  and  when  their 
father  told  her  that  his  lawyer  had  advised  him  not  to 
allow  her  to  see  them,  Jean  could  not  believe  such 
baseness  could  find  a  place  in  a  human  breast;  but 
the  next  day  she  was  forced  to,  when  this  shaggy- 
browed  monster,  the  lawyer  himself,  rushed  into  the 
room  where  she  was  locked  in  the  embrace  of  her  chil 
dren,  having  just  clasped  them  to  her  bosom  for  the 
first  time  in  four  months,  and  dragged  them  screaming 
from  the  room,  and  hurried  them  away,  she  knew  not 
where. 

This  lawyer  was  the  same  man  who,  years  after,  was 
Governor  of  Oregon,  and  later,  was  candidate  for  the 
United  States  Senate  on  the  Republican  ticket,  and 
lost  by  only  one  vote.  The  man  who  would  have  cast 
the  one  vote  required  was  missing  from  the  legislative 
hall  at  the  time  the  final  vote  was  taken.  The  speaker 
of  the  Senate  brought  down  his  gavel  with  great  force, 
but  to  no  purpose,  as  he  sent  the  eergeant-at-arms  to 
find  the  missing  man.  Now,  it  happened  that  Thomas 
Ames,  as  Dr.  Knight  had  predicted  years  and  years 
before,  was  a  stalwart  among  his  confreres  in  the  legis 
lative  hall  that  session.  He  forced  measures,  and  said 
to  Jean: 

"  I'll  die  on  that  floor,  Sis,  before  a  man  vile  as  I 
know  that  lawyer  to  be,  shall  represent  Oregon  in  the 
Senate  of  the  United  States.  Never,  while  I'm  alive, 
shall  that  man  go/' 

And  when  the  gentleman  could  not  be  found, 
Thomas  Ames  was  the  only  man  on  the  floor  who 
could  guess  where  he  was,  and  he  did  not  know  his 
exact  location. 

Thomas  Ames,  who  had  driven  furiously  into  town, 
and  was  the  first  man  in  the  Senate-chamber  that 
afternoon,  leaning  toward  his  confrere  in  the  next 
seat,  quietly,  though  with  something  of  tragedy  in  his 
manner,  exclaimed:  "I  have  him  now  upon  the  hip, 
and  I'll  feed  fat  upon  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear  him." 

It  is  more  than  likely  that  there  were  more  tears  shed 


LAWYER    GOBBS.  205 

and  taller  oaths  indulged  in,  at  the  disappointment  of 
this  candidate,  than  any  other  since  Oregon  has  been 
a  state. 

Baby  Murdstone  was  now  a  girl  of  nineteen,  a 
strong,  resolute,  handsome  girl.  The  man  who  was 
missing  when  so  much  needed,  had  often,  of  late,  been 
invited  by  Thomas  Ames  to  dine  with  him  at  the 
Murdstone  farm-house,  six  miles  in  the  country.  Miss 
Murdstone  was  charming — in  fact,  she  was  fascinating 
to  the  gentleman  who  was  so  stanch  a  political  friend 
of  the  aspirant  for  senatorial  honors. 

On  the  day  that  the  final  vote  was  to  be  cast,  Thomas 
Ames  met  the  friend,  and  taking  out  his  watch,  said : 

"  My  friend,  it  is  eleven  o'clock.  We've  just  time  to 
drive  to  the  Murdstones'  and  lunch  on  fried  chicken 
with  peaches  and  cream." 

"Only  too  happy  to  join  you,"  said  the  fly. 

Miss  Murdstone  met  the'm  at  the  gate  and  assured 
them  that  dinner  had  been  waiting  five  minutes.  The 
gentleman  thought  he  never  had  seen  Miss  Murdstone 
more  charming  than  to-day.  Dinner  was  soon  dis 
patched,  Thomas  declaring  that  the  affairs  of  state 
were  hanging  heavy  upon  their  massive  brows  that 
day. 

"  I  don't  like  statesmen,  I  like  gentlemen  of  leisure," 

Eoutingly  rejoined  Miss  Murdstone,  adding  with  most 
ewitching  grace  that  she  wanted  to  drive  to  town  with 
her  brother  to  buy  a  ribbon  for  her  new  hat. 

The  noble  politician  deplored  her  entertaining  such 
an  opinion,  and  assured  her  if  she  would  consent  to 
ride  with  him  that  the  affairs  of  state  should  not 
prevent  her  from  obtaining  the  ribbon  for  her  bonnet. 
It  is  useless  to  say  she  consented.  After  they  had 
ridden  a  few  miles,  she  assured  the  gentleman  there 
was  a  pasture  through  which  they  could  drive,  which 
would  shorten  the  road  very  materially.  And  the 
gentleman  being  very  eager  to  get  to  the  legislative 
hall,  consented  to  open  the  gate  and  drive  through, 
and  after  driving  round  and  round  and  gaining  no 
special  headway,  he  at  last  began  to  show  signs  of 


206 


THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 


impatience  But  the  young  lady  placidly  declared 
with  her  sweetest  smiles  that  they  would  be  at  the 
gate  in  due  time,  mentally  adding: 

"At  least,  as  soon  as  the  voting  is  over  in  the  legis 
lature,  and  I  shall  be  as  glad  to  be  done  with  my 
affairs  of  state  as  thfrgentleman  will  be  to  begin  his — 
wheii  he  reaches  the  legislative  hail  this  afternoon." 


"  O,  mother,  take  me,  too  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

THE    EIGHT-THOUSAND-DOLLAB    BRIBE. 


Then  Jean  thought  it  time  to  have  a  lawyer  of  her 
own,  and  see  if  there  could  not  be  wrung  out  some 
justice  from  the  law.  She  borrowed  fifty  dollars, 
which  she  paid  to  lawyer  Strayton,  as  a  retainer,  to 
secure  him  against  the  bribes  of  her  enemies.  What 
a  fool !  How  little  she  knew  of  the  workings  of  the 
law,  to  think  that  justice  could  be  bought  with  _  so 
paltry  a  sum.  Only  fifty  pieces  on  one  side,  against 
fifty  thousand  on  the  other.  Her  lawyer  could  not 
have  been  so  easily  bought  in  this  case  had  he  not 
been  so  poor,  and  had  not  his  wife  sent  up  such  pit 
eous  wails  that  summer,  for  silk  dresses.  He  was  a 
man  of  rather  fine  sympathies,  but  when  he  would  do 
good,  evil  was  present  with  him.  He  would  a  little 
rather  do  right  than  wrong  when  the  temptation  was 
not  absolutely  overpowering.  And  when  Miser  and 
his  shaggy-browed  counsel  offered  him  three  thousand 
lollars  to  betray  Jean,  he  at  first  indignantly  spurned 
them  and  their  gold.  Again  and  again  they  held  up 
the  glittering  bait  before  his  hungry  eyes,  which  he 
as  often  resolutely  resisted;  but  poverty  pressed  him 
on  every  side;  he  longed  to  exchange  his  humble,  un- 
painted  cottage  for  a  grand  mansion,  with  graveled 
walks.  The  trial  had  been  put  off  from  time  to  time 
in  order  to  let  the  scandalous  stories  get  well  circu 
lated;  but  at  length  the  time  was  set  again.  It  was  to 
be  a  little  special  court  for  this  case  alone,  and  just 
three  days  before  the  time,  Jean's  lawyer  found  he  had 
pressing  business  at  a  distance,  but  called  to  tell  her 
to  be  of  good  cheer;  that  she  would  soon  have  her 


208  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

children;  that  the  case  was  bound  to  be  decided  in 
her  favor,  and  then  she  would  be  rich,  as  she  would 
certainly  get  fifteen  or  twenty  thousand  dollars  with 
the  children  for  their  support.  The  judge,  too,  had 
great  respect  for  him,  and  anything  he  might  say  in 
her  behalf  must  have  its  weight,  and  he  would  tell 
a  tale  of  horror  that  would  chill  their  very  heart's 
blood,  and  she  should  go  to  the  court-room  and  hear 
the  plea.  She  had  not  been  allowed  to  know  aught 
of  the  proceedings,  because  she  was  a  woman,  and  her 
presence  in  the  court-room  would  be  sure  to  be  taken 
as  evidence  of  her  being  a  coarse,  vulgar  woman,  and 
so  work  against  her.  Her  lawyer  had  insisted  all 
summer,  too,  that  it  was  so  much  more  modest  to  have 
depositions  taken,  and  not  bring  her  witnesses  into 
open  court,  especially  her  lady  friends.  And  she  after 
ward  found  in  looking  over  the  records  of  the  case 
on  file  in  the  clerk's  office  -for  that  county,  that  her 
very  honest  and  proper  attorney  must  have  considered 
it  indelicate  to  have  even  the  depositions  read  in  court, 
for  she  found  no  record  kept  of  many  of  the  most  im 
portant  ones. 

The  made-up  tales  of  slander  went  from  mouth  to 
mouth  until  Jean  was  in  danger  of  being  insulted,  and 
had  to  keep  herself  secluded  from  the  lecherous  gaze  of 
the  idle,  pork-and-tobacco-eating,  whisky-soaked  sen 
sualists  that  laid  around  that  town. 

They  could  find  no  one  yet  base  enough  to  make  oath 
to  any  of  the  stories,  though  they  had  a  rumor  of  a 
man  living  two  hundred  miles  away,  who,  it  was  thought, 
would  swear  to  anything.  A  desperate  struggle  must 
be  made  by  Miser  and  his  counsel  to  keep  the  children, 
as  whoever  got  the  children  must  get  the  money.  So 
the  case  was  put  off  again.  This  new  witness  was  their 
last  refuge;  a  deputy  sheriff  was  sent  in  search  of  him, 
but  when  he  was  found  he  was  too  drunk  to  give  his 
deposition,  and  when  sober  he  refused  to  give  it. 

Jean  had  grown  almost  desperate  at  having  the 
decision  put  off  and  put  off,  and  now  that  they  must 
have  a  little  private  court,  she  could  bear  it  no  longer, 


THE  EIGHl^THOUSAJtfD-t)OLLA&  BRIBE.        209 

and  told  her  counsel  that  immodest  or  not,  she  would 
have  some  witnesses  summoned,  gave  him  the  names, 
and  the  sheriff,  the  only  man  in  the  lot,  summoned 
them  to  appear  on  the  29th  of  November.  Some  of 
them  lived  miles  away;  still  they  came  early  in  the 
morning,  but  the  Court  and  his  friends,  not  to  be 
thwarted  by  a  little  woman,  reached  the  court-house, 
closed  the  doors,  and  proceeded  at  once  to  give  his 
decision,  so  that  when  her  witnesses  reached  the  hall, 
the  judge  said  he  would  hear  no  more  testimony,  that 
his  mind  was  already  made  up. 

Yes,  Jean  feared  as  much  when,  on  the  day  before, 
she  saw  Miser  step  into  a  store  opposite  her  boarding- 
place,  where  she  knew  he  had  his  money  on  deposit, 
and  come  out  soon  with  a  portmanteau  on  his  arm,  and 
she  knew  from  the  small  bulk  and  great  weight  hanging 
down  that  it  was  his  gold.  She  watched,  with  eager 
eyes;  and  imagine,  if  you  can,  how  her  heart  sank 
within  her,  when  she  saw  him  walk  across  the  street, 
and  enter  the  judge's  room.  She  flew  into  the  store  to 
ask  the  merchant  if  Miser  had  taken  out  his  money. 
He  said  he  had,  just  that  moment.  Jean's  suspicions 
were  correct.  All  was  lost.  She  staggered  back  to  her 
room  to  find  a  letter  from  her  lawyer,  saying  that  he 
could  not  possibly  be  present  at  the  trial,  as  he  had 
bought  a  lot  of  hogs  on  credit,  which  must  be  killed 
immediately  and  his  creditors  paid,  or  he  would  lose 
his  reputation  as  an  honest  man.  The  court-room  was 
crowded  with  men  who  had  come  there  mostly  to  sat 
isfy  a  morbid  curiosity,  and  though  the  judge's  mind 
was  already  "made  up,"  yet  that  shaggy-browed  fiend, 
Miser's  lawyer,  Gobbs,  stood  up  in  their  midst  and  reiter 
ated  all  the  base  slanders  that  he  himself  had  coined  and 
been  the  most  active  in  circulating,  and  abused  and  de 
famed  Jean,  a  sick  woman,  at  that  time,  unable  to  get  off 
her  bed,  in  the  most  shameless  manner  that  even  a  coarse- 
haired  thing  in  human  form  could  possibly  do.  The 
decree  of  course,  was  all  in  favor  of  the  one  that  carried 
the  purse.  No  notice  was  taken  of  Jean.  She  had  no 


210  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

rights  that  a  man  was  bound  to  respect.  A  divorce  was 
granted  Miser,  who  was  to  have  the  children,  one  a 
babe,  and  pay  all  the  costs  of  court.  The  Judge, 
Michael  P.  Didit,  who  by  the  way  has  since  been 
United  States  District  Judge,  a  position  that  the  law 
declares  a  man  shall  hold  during  his  life  or  good  be 
havior,  was  "dispensing  with  justice"  that  year  in  the 
Superior  Court  of  Douglas  County.  He  was  a  coarse, 
red-haired  man,  with  small  eyes,  bloated  flesh  and  dis 
tended  abdomen.  He  said  that  Jean  had  no  cause  of 
complaint;  that  though  taken  when  a  mere  child  and 
compelled  to  bear  children  until  broken  down  in  health; 
though  compelled  to  work  hard,  and  live  on  a  coarse 
and  scanty  fare,  deprived  of  the  society  of  civilized 
people,  yet  it  was  within  the  law;  that  according  to 
the  law  a  man  had  a  right  to  marry  a  child,  even  at  the 
age  of  twelve ;  that  the  property  belongs  to  the  hus 
band,  even  to  the  wife's  wardrobe,  and  the  money  which 
he  got  of  the  missionary  for  her  land  was  given  to  him; 
even  her  calico  dresses,  and  the  bed  and  fixtures  that  her 
mother  gave  her  were  to  be  his ;  and  as  for  whipping,  the 
law  gives  the  husband  reasonable  restraint  over  the  wife, 
in  fact  he  may  whip  her  to  death,  provided  the  death 
don't  take  place  within  four  days  from  the  whipping. 
The  world  is  still  grieving  because  Socrates  had  to 
drink  the  poisonous  draught,  but  we  think  'twas  right 
for  him  to  bow  his  head  to  the  decree;  for  he  helped 
to  make  the  laws  of  his  country,  and  the  law  he  had 
helped  to  enforce  against  the  meanest  serf  in  the 
country  was  good  enough  for  him.  Eat  God  only 
knows  how  hard  it  was  for  Jean  to  be  a  law-abiding 
citizen,  and  she  protested  against  bending  in  meek 
submission  to  laws  she  never  helped  to  make.  And  espe 
cially  was  it  hard,  after  lying  upon  a  bed  of  sickness 
for  months  and  months,  occasioned  by  her  ill-treat 
ment,  that  took  her  down  to  the  door  of  the  grave — 
when  pale  and  trembling  she  went  to  see  her  poor 
children,  and  found  them  in  dirt  and  filth  and  rags, 
covered  with  vermin,  their  hair  matted  to  their  heads 


THE  EIGHT-THOUSAND-DOLLAR  BRIBE.       211 

by  ulcerated  sores,  to  hear  their  piteous  moans  for  their 
mother.  O,  how  she  wished  for  power  to  crush  the 
unequal,  man-made  laws  that  thus  cruelly  trampled  on 
the  necks  of  the  innocent  and  helpless!  From  time  to 
time  she  had  been  to  see  them  since,  but  could  talk 
with  them  only  as  a  friend  speaks  with  a  friend  in 
prison,  under  the  vigilant  eye  of  a  guard.  Once  she 
went  to  see  them  and  found  them  at  a  wretched  hovel 
in  the  midst  of  squalor  and  ignorance.  The  people 
had  instructions  not  to  let  her  see  them  at  all,  and  at 
her  approach  had  secreted  them  in  a  dark  loft.  The 
coarse,  ignorant  women  were  determined  that  she 
shouldn't  see  her  children,  but  she  appealed  to  the 
man  who  was  working  near  by,  and  succeeded  not 
only  in  gaining  his  consent,  but  melted  him  to  tears  at 
the  recital  of  her  griefs. 

The  children  were  allowed  to  come  out  of  their 
gloomy  hiding-place.  They  were  overjoyel  to  meet 
her,  but  were  compelled  to  suppress  their  feelings  for 
fear  of  being  punished.  It  was  a  cold,  windy,  November 
day,  and  they  were  all  only  half -clad.  Her  little  five- 
year-old  boy  had  on  thin  cotton  clothes,  with  great 
holes  worn  through  at  the  knees  and  elbows,  his 
extremities  were  cold  and  his  frail  body  chilled 
through.  Jean  took  him  up  to  her  bosom  where  he 
nestled  as  in  days  of  yore,  and  wept  and  sobbed  as 
though  his  little  heart  would  break.  Terrified,  he  told 
her  in  whispers  how  they  had  taught  him  that  she  was 
a  bad  woman,  that  she  would  steal  him,  and  take  him 
away  off  and  abuse  and  whip  him. 

"You  wouldn't,  mother,  would  you?"  said  the 
child. 

"  No,  my  little  darling,  but  they  won't  let  you  go 
with  me,"  said  Jean. 

Then  they  both  wept  together.  O,  how  like  break 
ing  her  heart-strings  it  was  to  go  away  and  leave  her 
children  in  such  a  place,  and  in  such  a  condition  as  the 
little  boy  was,  covered  from  head  to  foot  with  the  most 
offensive  cutaneous  eruptions.  "When  she  reached 


212  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

home  she  sat  down  and  wrote  their  father  a  long,  touch 
ing  letter,  appealing  to  his  better  nature,  begging  him 
to  use  some  of  his  abundant  means  in  the  better  care 
of  his  children,  and  though  they  were  still  kept  in 
ignorance,  and  poorly  clothed  and  fed,  yet  she  never 
found  them  in  such  destitution  and  filth  as  formerly; 
though  she  was  still  prohibited  to  talk  with  them,  as 
will  be  seen  by  the  following  card,  which  appeared  in 
a  paper  over  their  father's  signature: 

"  NOTICE. 

"Mrs.   ,  you  are  hereby  notified  to  let  my 

children  entirely  alone.  I  warn  you  not  to  molest  or 
talk  to  them,  or  influence  them  through  any  other 
person.  The  court  gave  me  the  exclusive  control  of 
said  children,  and  a  bill  from  you.  And  I  further  give 
notice  to  you  to  keep  off  my  place  and  premises  at  your 
paril.  0.  MISER." 


OHAPTEE  XXXV. 

UNDER  THE  APPLE-TKEE  BOUGH. 

Four  jears  have  passed  quickly  by.  Jean  has  spent 
them  at  the  Willamette  University;  the  vacations  at 
home  with  her  family,  friends  and  neighbors,  with  all 
of  whom  she  is  a  favorite.  At  school  she  has  led  in 
every  study  that  she  has  undertaken.  She  is  a  woman 
at  last. 

Great  God!  was  there  ever  such  a  childhood?  The 
wealth  of  love  and  admiration  that  she  meets  with 
everywhere,  she  drinks  in  as  eagerly  as  the  parched 
earth  drinks  up  the  refreshing  shower. 

It  is  vacation  now,  in  August.  The  summer  has 
been  finer  than  any  Italy.  To-day  has  been  more  than 
glorious.  Jean  has  been  busy  helping  make  pretty 
linen  lawns  for  her  step-sisters,  the  handsomest  girls 
in  the  valley,  Jean  thinks,  with  their  sunny  curls,  blue 
eyes  and  pink-and-white  complexions.  They  are 
fifteen,  eighteen  and  twenty  years  of  age,  now. 

The  house  stands  on  the  same  site  where  their  first 
log-cabin  was  built.  A  commodious  country  frame, 
with  every  modern  improvement.  The  whole  family 
have  been  to  supper  in  the  spacious  dining-room;  the 
windows  are  open,  and  the  cool,  refreshing  sea-breeze 
is  gently  toying  with  the  mission  rose-bush  that  stands 
just  outside  the  window,  laden  with  its  wealth  of 
bloom,  wafting  the  delicious  fragrance  all  through  the 
room.  The  early  peaches  are  ripe,  and  peaches  and 
cream,  with  tea,  is  the  charm  that  induces  the  family 
to  linger  long  at  the  table,  until  Alfred — the  adorable 
Alfred,  a  young  man  now,  just  nineteen,  who  can  hit 
the  mark  every  time — says : 

"  Sis,  if  we're  to  bag  our  game  to-night  we  must 


214  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

mount  and  be  off;  you  look  so  lovely  in  your  new  rid 
ing  habit,  I  almost  wish  you  were  some  other  fellow's 
sister." 

"Ah,  well,  Alf,"  Jean  replies  with  one  of  her  be 
witching  smiles,  as  she  pokes  a  long  pin  through  her 
hat  to  hold  it  securely,  "I  am  well  satisfied  to  be 
yours,  for  you  are  tlie  dearest  brother  a  girl  ever  had." 

They  galloped  along  down  the  lane,  over  the  hills 
and  through  the  heavy  timber.  They  were  a  fine 
couple;  Jean  on  her  spirited  dapple-gray,  and  Alfred 
on  his  fiery  black  steed,  that  took  a  masterful  hand  to 
control.  He  was  eagerly  telling  her  how  to  take  aim, 
if  they  spied  a  deer. 

"  The  deer  come  out  to  feed  about  this  time  of  day," 
said  Alfred. 

"  It's  nearly  sundown,"  Jean  said,  "I  should  think; 
it's  getting  dark. " 

"  Oh,  no,  Jean,  its  only  the  dense  foliage  of  this  tall 
timber;  at  noon,  some  days,  it's  nearly  as  dark  as 
night." 

"  Hark!  there  are  voices,"  said  Jean. 

"  Yes,"  answered  Alfred,  softly,  "  it  is  Sis  Waldovere 
and  her  gentleman  friend  from  San  Francisco." 

There  was  a  sharp  turn  in  the  road,  and  while  he  was 
yet  speaking,  two  people  bowed  and  rode  on  a  few 

Eaces.  Sis  Waldovere  drew  rein.  "  Oh,  it's  you,  Al- 
:ed,  and  your  "sister  Jean.  It  is  really  getting  so 
dark,  and  I  was  so  busy  talking,  I  did  not  recognize  you. 
I  w^as  going  to  send  you  word  that  we're  all  coming 
over  to  see  you  to-morrow. " 

"  At  what  time?"  asked  Jean  in  her  flute-like  notes. 

"Oh,  sometime  in  the  forenoon,  about  eleven  o'clock. 
There  are  fifteen  or  twenty  of  us;  look  out  for  danger 
ahead,  Jean,"  and  a  little  musical  laugh  went  ringing 
out  and  echoed  back  through  the  woods. 

"  A  magnificent  escort  Sis  Waldovere  has  to-night. 
Strange,  the  best  of  them  can't  capture  the  enchanting 
Sis." 

"  He  was  charming  to  look  at  through  the  bending 
boughs  of  that  old  fir  tree  that  nearly  hid  him  from 


UNDER  THE  APPLE-TREE   BOUGH.  215 

my  view,"  cried  Jean  in  tones  of  something  like  rapt 
ure,  yet  with  a  little  touch  of  disappointment  in  them; 
then  with  a  hum:  "The  dim  old  forest,  it's  quite  pro 
voking.  It  was  so  near  dark  I  could  not  see  the  man. 
Sis  was  very  much  absorbed  herself,  I  think,  or  she 
would  have  seen  us  sooner." 

"Never  mind,  my  dear  sister,"  said  Alfred  in  most 
pathetic  tones,  <c  he  will  be  with  the  horseback  party 
to-morrow." 

They  were  cantering  along  and  had  come  out  into 
the  open  field,  where  the  sun,  sure  enough,  was  still 
shining  brightly. 

Alfred,  glancing  at  his  sister,  exclaimed: 

* '  Why,  Jean,  I  never  saw  you  look  so  lovely.  Tour 
eyes  are  radiant  and  your  lips  are  cherry  red,  and  a 
slight  flush  on  cheek  and  brow — that  graceful  pose 
of  your  lovely  neck  is  like  a  young  fawn  s.  If  I  were 
your  lover,  I  would  glide  to  the  ground  and  swear  it 
was  holy,  and  kneel  there  forever  if  you  did  not  bid  me 
rise." 

* '  Why,  what  a  charming  lover  you  would  make.  I 
should  never  believe  anyone  else  as  I  do  you.  I  think 
you  half  in  earnest,  but  a  most  consummate  flatterer.  I 
shall  not  listen.  You  will  make  me  silly.  No  more  non 
sense;  Alf,  we  must  hurry  home.  You  remember  Sis's  ring 
ing  laugh  as  she  started?  Well,  that  was  a  telegraphic 
message  understood  by  us  girls.  It  means  I  must  have 
the  house  and  the  girls  and  everything  in  "apple-pie" 
order  to-morrow.  I  must  have  banks  of  roses  and 
bloom  in  every  corner  of  the  house,  for  people  take 
such  liberties  in  an  old  country  house,  and  they'll  wan 
der  from  garret  to  cellar.  But  we'll  be  ready  for  them. 
You'll  help  me  cut  flowers  in  the  morning  while  the 
dew  is  on.  Those  lovely  lawn  gowns  are  nearly  finished. 
How  glorious  for  the  girls ! " 

"Aha,  Jean,  Sis  said  to  you,  '  Look  out,  there  is 
danger  ahead ! ' " 

Next  morning  Jean  and  the  Murdstone  girls  were  up 
with  the  larks.  The  plain,  old  farm-house  was  a  para 
dise  of  bloom;  flowers,  trailing  vines,  wild  grasses,  to- 


216  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

gether  with  the  dark  evergreens,  made  the  place 
enchanting,  lovely  as  a  bower,  grand  as  some  old 
cathedral.  Jean,  in  her  simple  way,  had  been  culti 
vating  her  decorative  genius  all  those  years  in  her 
Umpqua  home,  and  now  she  had  given  it  free  scope, 
and  it  was  easy  for  her  to  take  a  little  insignificant 
wild  flower,  and  so  arrange  it  with  clustering  vines  and 
waving  grasses  that  it  looked  a  thing  of  marvelous 
beauty.  At  half  past  ten  the  girls  were  in  their  pretty 
lawn  gowns,  looking  from  the  chamber  window  for  the 
coming  cavalcade  of  visitors.  It  was  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  so  many  young  men  and  maidens  riding  horseback 
down  the  long  lane.  At  last,  the  girls,  with  rapture, 
caught  sight  of  them  a  half  a  mile  away,  galloping  at 
full  speed.  They  had  just  time  to  clamber  hastily 
down  the  short  flight  of  stairs,  and,  with  one  graceful 
bound,  meet  the  visitors  at  the  gate — a  very  pretty, 
hospitable  and  comfortable  custom  in  Oregon  in  those 
days,  and  one  that  ought,  by  the  way,  to  be  preserved 
by  all  coming  generations  in  their  country  homes.  The 
reader  will  remember  that  Diogenes  demanded  this 
hospitality  of  his  friends,  to  be  met  half  way.  A  few 
of  the  party  went  cantering  by,  the  ride  being  too  ex 
hilarating  to  dismount  so  soon,  but  a  goodly  number, 
Sis  Waldovere  among  them,  were  already  in  the  house. 
Some  of  the  party  rambled  over  the  grounds  and  or 
chard  before  entering  the  house.  The  introductions 
took  place  at  the  gate.  Sis  Waldovere  never  forgot  to 
make  everybody  acquainted,  and  set  the  ball  rolling 
for  merriment  and  laughter.  There  was  always  a  good 
time  assured  when  Sis  was  of  the  party. 

Jean  was  quite  surprised  to  find  that  the  gentleman 
she  had  met  riding  with  Sis  Waldovere  on  the  previous 
evening,  was  Mr.  Reming,  the  same  gentleman  who 
had  called  at  her  home  in  the  Umpqua,  four  years  be 
fore,  with  his  frjend  Mr.  Stewart.  The  first  words  he 
said  to  her  now  were: 

"  How  like  your  home  in  the  Umpqua!  Your  indi 
vidualism  expresses  itself  everywhere  alike." 


Fean  and  Mr.  Reminghad  found  their  way  to  the  old  bellflower  tree. 


UNDER  THE  APPLE-TREE  BOUGH.  217 

And  Jean,  with  a  Madonna-like  sadness,  repliedi 
"  How  unlike  my  home  in  the  Umpqua  it  all  is  to  me." 

"  That  I  saw  you  there,  surrounded  with  bloom  and 
wild  vines,  something  like  this,  is  all  I  remember/' 
persisted  Mr.  Reming. 

"  That  day  will  be  ever  bright  in  the  constellation  of 
memories,  Mr.  Reming.  How  I  have  longed  to  see 
you,  and  tell  you  what  that  day  has  been  to  me,"  quiet 
ly  responded  Jean. 

Mr.  Reming  and  Sis  Waldovere  were  Bta^nding  near 
a  pot  of  wild  roses,  talking  of  the  beauty  of  Its  bloom, 
when  Jean  entered,  who  had  been  detained  telling 
some  of  the  party  where  they  could  find  the  blackbird's 
nest,  hid  in  a  willow  tree  that  grew  on  the  banks  of  the 
Spring  branch,  just  below  the  orchard.  The  young 
birds  had  abandoned  it  in  the  early  spring,  but  the  nest 
remained  with  some  blue-jay's  eggs  that  Alfred  had 
deposited  in  it  to  fool  the  girls,  who  had  gone  every 
day  for  a  week  now,  to  see  if  the  old  bird  had  com 
menced  to  hatch  her  brood. 

Jean  and  Mr.  Reming  had  found  their  way  to  the 
old  bellflower  tree,  whose  boughs  bent  so  low  under 
their  heavy  load  of  mellow  apples  that  they  had  to  be 
propped  to  support  the  great  weight  of  the  golden  fruit. 
Taking  one  from  the  bough,  Jean  handed  it  to  Mr. 
Reming. 

He  took  it,  saying:  "I  will  eat  this  apple,  since  it's 
been  held  in  your  fair  hand.'*  He  pared  oft' its  golden 
coat,  letting  it  fall  at  his  feet,  and  splitting  the  apple  in 
two,  asked  Jean  to  share  it  with  him. 

"Yes,  gladly,"  answered  Jean,  "this  is  my  favorite 
apple." 

"  Do  you  know  if  I  should  ask  a  woman  to  share  my 
life  with  me,  I  should  want  her  to  answer  me  just  as 
you  have  now,  about  the  apple.  I  should  want  her  to 
say, 'Yes,  gladly!" 

Jean,  looking  down  at  her  pretty  shoe  plowing  ita 
way  into  the  mellow  earth,  answering,  said; 


218  *  THE   HEROINE 

"No  doubt  she  would,  if  she  loved  you  as  I  love," — 
hesitating  a  moment,  "this  apple." 

Reining  was  bending  lower  to  catch  the  sound  of  her 
last  word,  and  looking  disappointed,  replied: 

"  My  soul  was  breathlessly  waiting  to  hear  *  you ' 
instead  of  'apple,'  but  to-morrow  we  will  probe  thia 
question  of  lave  and  apples  still  deeper,  and  you  will 
not  say  apples  then?  " 

"No,"  slid  from  her  lips,  as  easily  and  naturally  aa 
breathing. 

Here  Sis  Waldovere  joined  them,  and  they  were  all 
moving  toward  the  gate. 

Bright  glances  and  sparkling  wit  had  simmered  down 
into  cool  reasoning  over  what  the  entertainment  for  to 
morrow  should  be,  when  Sis  Waldovere,  the  adjuster  of 
all  differences,  proposed  they  all  drive  to  the  Silver 
Creek  Falls.  The  road  was  over  a  delightful  country. 
Everyone  was  pleased,  and  Mr.  Reming  asked  Jean  to 
accompany  him.  The  fishing  at  the  Falls  for  silver 
trout  was  enticing,  and  sure  to  make  the  day  one  of 
pleasure  to  them  all.  The  party  having  enjoyed  the 
ripe,  golden  apples,  picked  by  fair  hands  from  the 
heavily  laden  boughs,  and  played  games  of  ball  with 
the  big  red  apples,  they  all  assured  Jean  and  the 
Murdstone  girls,  they  had  enjoyed  the  morning  to  the 
full,  and  mounting  their  horses,  cantered  back  to  the 
Waldoveres'  to  partake  of  dinner. 

Mr.  Waldovere  often  entertained  twenty  or  thirty 
guests  at  dinner.  His  house  was  the  center  of  attrac 
tion  for  years  in  Oregon,  and  right  royally  he  could  en 
tertain. 

When  the  merry  party  thronged  in,  he  melted  all 
over  in  a  beaming  smile,  and  with  a  few  cheerful  re 
marks  showed  them  the  way  to  the  broad  dining-room. 
The  dinner-table  was  a  blaze  of  beauty.  The  exquisite 
perfume  of  the  flowers  that  ornamented  the  table  so 
profusely,  mingled  with  the  aroma  of  the  fine  baked 
chicken  nestling  in  a  fringe  of  parsley.  A  finely-baked 
silver  trout  floated  in  a  platter  of  melted,  creamy  but- 


UNDER  THE  APPLE-TREE  BOUGH.     219 

ter ;  snowy  bread  and  delicious  cake  threw  their  incense 
over  the  heads  of  the  joyous  company,  and  big  rosy 
apples  beamed  on  the  guests  as  they  beamed  on  each 
other.  The  sparkling  conversation  and  brilliant  sallies 
made  the  occasion  ever  memorable  to  the  young  people, 
and  old  Mr.  Waldovere  even  in  after  years  spoke  of 
it  with  a  merry  twinkle  in  his  benevolent  eye,  and  with 
gentle  caresses  would  say  to  his  daughter  : 

"Well,  Sis,  it  makes  me  think  I'm  a  boy  again  to 
think  of  that  day  when  Reming  came,  and  you  had  all 
been  over  to  see  our  Jean." 

As  soon  as  the  guests  had  all  gone,  Jean  threw  her 
self  into  a  big  arm-chair  and  dreamed  the  delicious 
dream  of  love,  and  at  night  when  she  sought  her  couch 
the  dream  only  grew  sweeter.  The  morning  dawned 
upon  Jean  with  bewitching  beauty,  and  so  did  Mr. 
Reming  with  a  lovely  span  of  dapple  grays.  Jean  met 
him  at  the  gate,  ready  for  the  ride.  She  stepped  into  the 
buggy  and  was  clasped  in  the  arms  that  were  to  enfold 
her  forever.  They  enjoyed  the  day  as  few  days  were 
ever  enjoyed  by  mortals  on  earth.  Reming  told  Jean 
how  he  had  been  detained  by  his  mining  interests  in 
California  for  the  last  two  years;  that  he  had  heard  from 
her  through  his  friend  Mr.  Stewart,  and  knew  she  was 
awaiting  his  coming. 

She  told  him  that  the  dream  of  his  possible  coming 
had  made  a  twilight  for  her  during  the  midnight  dark 
ness  of  her  deep  affliction. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

JEAN   STUDYING  MEDICINE. 

Jean  was  a  woman  now,  fully  equipped  for  the  high 
est  enjoyments  of  conjugal  love.  Their  engagement 
was  announced  to  the  party  as  soon  as  they  all  assem 
bled  at  the  falls,  and  the  hearty  congratulations  they 
received  from  their  merry  companions  all  enhanced 
the  pleasure  of  the  hour.  Joy  seemed  to  pervade  the 
whole  atmosphere,  as  the  white  spray  did  the  air  about 
the  falls. 

Jean  and  Mr.  Reming  were  happily  married  in  the 
fall,  and  the  wedding  present  that  she  prized  more 
perhaps  than  any  other  was  a  library  containing  most 
of  the  standard  authors,  from  her  husband.  The  ten 
der  companionship  of  the  man  she  loved,  the  refined 
and  polished  gentleman  that  ever  anticipated  her  wants, 
made  life  so  much  more  to  her  than  it  could  have  been 
if  her  soul  had  not  been  made  so  tender  and  acutely 
sensitive  by  the  crushing  experiences  of  the  past. 
Though  a  baby  boy,  so  promising  and  bright,  was  fol 
lowed  in  seasonable  time,  by  a  little  girl, — the  fair-haired 
Dot,  that  the  reader  will  remember  having  been  men 
tioned  in  the  opening  chapter — yet  the  deep,  longing 
mother  love  for  her  babies  in  the  woods  drove  the 
mother-heart  to  some  deeds  of  daring  that  were  rather 
unusual  for  a  woman.  She  determined  to  write  a  story, 
and  this  required  some  preparation  to  fit  herself  for  so 
arduous  an  undertaking ;  she  must,  at  least,  master 
some  of  the  sciences,  especially  that  of  medicine. 

At  that  date,  in  '68,  a  woman  had  never  been  per 
mitted  to  enter  the  sacred  precincts  of  a  medical  col 
lege  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  it  was  possible  that  they 


JEAN  STUDYING   MEDICINE.  221 

would  not  be  admitted  for  many  years  to  come.  Here 
was  an  obstacle  that  must  be  met  and  overcome.  Jean 
and  Mr.  Reming  had  many  friends  in  the  Willamette 
University,  and  as  that  institution  had  just  added  a  de 
partment  of  medicine  to  its  curriculum,  Jean  and  her 
husband  interviewed  a  few  of  the  trustees  and  pro 
fessors — noble-souled  men,  who  said  she  should  enter 
as  a  student  if  she  so  desired.  They,  with  their  big, 
common-sense,  Pacific  Coast  brains,  said  they  did  not 
know'why  women  should  not  learn  medicine  as  well  as 
their  a  b  c's. 

Everything  being  arranged,  it  was  announced  by 
one  of  the  professors  in  a  daily  paper  that  a  woman 
had  applied  for  admittance  into  the  medical  college 
and  been  admitted.  Everybody  was  on  the  tiptoe  of 
curiosity  as  to  who  she  could  be  and  where  she  was  to 
come  from.  At  the  opening  of  the  term,  everybody 
was  charmed  and  delighted,  and  thought  it  the  most 
appropriate  thing  in  the  world,  when  the  door  was 
opened  and  our  dauntless  Jean  passed  in  and  took  the 
place  of  preference  that  had  been  assigned  her,  just  in 
front  of  the  professor,  who  was  already  discoursing 
upon  anatomy ;  and  the  young  students,  half  shame 
faced  and  apologetical,  took  the  earliest  opportunity  to 
assure  her  that  they  had  not  the  remotest  idea  that  it 
could  be  she,  or  they  never  should  have  passed  a  reso 
lution  attempting  to  exclude  her  from  their  class. 
Jean  passed  the  entire  term  in  the  society  of  the  pro 
fessors  and  young  gentlemen  students,  no  other  woman 
entering  the  hall  the  whole  term,  so  much  prejudice 
existed  in  the  outside  circles  against  women  studying 
medicine.  Jean,  however,  was  too  much  absorbed  in 
her  studies  to  observe  this,  or  even  miss  them.  She 
never  lost  a  day,  and  scarcely  an  hour,  and  the  profes 
sors  remarked  that  she  was  more  punctual  in  attend 
ance  than  any  man  among  them.  There  was  never  a 
word  uttered,  either,  by  professor  or  student,  during 
the  whole  term,  that  might  not  with  perfect  propriety 
have  been  spoken  in  any  parlor  in  Christendom,  and 


222  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

the  students  declared  that  they  had  made  more  rapid 
progress  with  their  studies  this  year  than  ever  before, 
because  they  had  wasted  no  time  in  the  usual  larks  and 
story-telling  common  to  medical  students.  They  seemed 
supremely  satisfied  with  themselves,  and  never  wanted 
to  be  in  a  medical  college  again  without  a  woman 
student  in  it;  and  their  wish  has  been  gratified,  as 
women  have  been  in  attendance  every  term  since.  No 
band  of  brothers  could  have  been  more  courteous, 
considerate  or  helpful,  than  this  band  of  students  were 
during  the  three  years  that  Jean  was  in  attendance  at 
the  college.  After  spending  three  years  in  the  Willa 
mette  University,  Jean  went  to  New  York  and  had  the 
benefit  of  attending  the  hospitals  and  lectures,  and  was 
graduated  with  honors  in  '72  from  the  Women's  Med 
ical  College. 

Jean,  having  spent  many  years  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
and  traveled  over  thousands  of  miles  of  the  richest  and 
most  productive  soil,  that  only  needed  the  magic  touch 
of  the  husbandman  to  make  it  yield  everything  neces 
sary  to  the  growth  and  sustenance  of  a  densely  popu 
lated  country,  and  seeing  it  wholly  uninhabited  save 
by  wild  Indians  and  herds  of  buffalo,  it  only  required 
a  visit  to  the  overcrowded  cities  of  the  East  to  see  at 
once  the  necessity  of  making  the  people  understand 
that  they  could  make  homes  in  the  far  West,  and  be 
infinitely  happier  and  better  surrounded  than  they 
could  ever  hope  to  be  in  the  eastern  states. 

It  is  the  legitimate  business  of  a  true  physician  to 
feel  the  needs  of  the  people  and  seek  to  benefit  them. 
In  spending  the  winter  of  1872  in  New  York  City 
completing  her  medical  studies,  Jean  was  brought  into 
immediate  contact  with  many  of  the  poor,  living  in 
tenement  houses,  as  well  as  in  the  hospitals;  and  it  did 
not  take  a  very  comprehensive  mind  to  see  how  much 
better  off  those  people  would  be  were  they  scattered 
over  the  broad  country  of  the  Pacific  Coast.  Jean  had 
a  millionaire  brother-in-law,  Mr.  Barron,  in  whose 
home  she  was  surrounded  with  all  the  privileges  and 


JEAN  STUDYING  MEDICINE.  223 

advantages  of  wealth,  and  from  this  home  and  social 
standpoint  she  saw  much  of  the  elegance  and  culture, 
refinement  and  splendor  of  jtfew  York's  wealth. 

Poor  old  Horace  Greeley's  "  Go  West,  young  man, 
go  West,"  was  ringing  out  upon  the  ears  of  an  awak 
ening  people,  who  are  just  now  beginning  to  put  his 
idea  into  practice.  Grant  was  at  the  zenith  of  his 
glory;  Sumner  was  the  great  statesman  in  the  United 
States  Senate;  Roscoe  Conkling,  the  leading  politician 
of  the  Republican  party;  Wm.  H.  Yanderbilt,  the 
towering  millionaire  and  railroad  king,  was  just  then 
•  beginning  to  grasp  the  control  of  his  lather's  colossal 
fortune,  young,  strong,  manly,  clear-headed,  with 
honest  purpose  to  do  right. 

It  was  Jean's  extreme  good  fortune  to  meet  those 
gentlemen  quite  often  during  her  stay  in  New  York, 
and  at  the  capitol.  One  Sunday  morning,  when  Henry 
Ward  Beecher  was  addressing  a  large  concourse  of 
people  in  the  Academy  of  Music  in  New  York  city, 
there  being  no  space  in  the  vast  auditorium,  Jean 
was,  along  with  others,  compelled  to  stand  on 
the  platform  and  listen  to  the  smooth,  flowing 
eloquence  of  the  speaker,  charmed  with  the 
voice  and  gesture  of  the  great  man,  but  woefully 
disappointed  in  the  matter  of  his  discourse.  He  was 
graphically  portraying  the  homes  of  the  American  peo 
ple.  Perhaps  no  person  upon  whose  ear  the  voice  of 
the  great  man  fell  that  day,  was  more  strongly  moved 
to  act  upon  what  he  had  left  unsaid,  than  the  little  wo 
man  from  far  beyond  the  Rockies.  He  did  not  speak 
of  the  Pacific  Coast,  nor  the  grand  possibilities  of  this 
vast  and  then  almost  unknown  territory.  Afterward, 
Jean  had  occasion  to  speak  to  him  about  this  sermon 
delivered  at  the  Academy  of  Music  in  New  York,  to 
more  people,  it  seemed  to  her,  than  lived  on  the  Pacific 
Coast  at  that  time.  She  told  him  the  music  of  his 
voice,  the  poetry  of  his  gestures,  the  magnetism  of  his 
mighty  genius  were  all  lost  on  her  because  he  left  out 
our  whole  country — that  portion,  she  told  him,  that 


224  THE    HEROINE    OF   '40. 

was  to  be  the  balance  of  power  of  the  civilized  world, 
and  ho  did  not  mention  it. 

"I  know  it  is  great;  I  feel  its  coming  power,  but," 
said  he,  "  that  is  your  province;  tell  the  people  of 
it.  I  cannot,  I  never  saw  it;  but  in  God's  good  time,  I 
will.  I  can  feel  the  beauty,  the  vastness  of  its  plains, 
the  grandeur  of  its  mountains,  the  goodness  of  its  soil, 
just  by  looking  at  you.  Come  to  my  house  and  tell  me 
all  about  it." 

"  Ah!  if  1  had  your  oratory,  your  audience,"  she 
eaid. 

"  I  am  like  a  canary  bird,  caged,"  said  Mr.  Beecher. 

"You  look  to  me  more  like  a  lion,"  was  Jean's 
laughing  rejoinder. 

"Use  a  pen  and  the  press,  madame,  said  he,  "and 
your  audience  will  be  millions,  where  mine  are  only 
thousands." 

Imbued  with  a  strong  purpose,  bowing  low,  she  said, 
"I  will  write  for  the  people."  That  afternoon,  before 
her  indignation  had  cooled,  she  wrote  a  paper  on  the 
chances  for  home-building  on  the  Pacific  coast.  And 
one  of  the  first  lines  was,  "What  a  pity  our  forefathers 
had  not  planted  their  feet  on  Pacific  soil  instead  of  on 
Plymouth  Rock."  She  contrasted  our  climate  with 
theirs  on  the  bleak  Atlantic  side,  and  told  them  they 
would  never  have  to  put  earth  on  the  sunny  side  of  a 
rock  to  grow  a  hill  of  corn,  as  they  do  in  New  Hamp 
shire  and  Vermont,  if  they  lived  in  California.  As  the 
paper  was  quite  lengthy,  she  rolled  it  up  and  tied  it 
about  with  a  blue  ribbon,45"  and  walked  from  227  Lex 
ington  avenue  to  the  new  railroad  depot,  and  was  ush 
ered  into  the  presence  of  the  great  railroad  king,  Wm. 
H.Vanderbilt.  At  eleven  o'clock  on  Sunday,  Jean  was 
listening  to  the  discourse  on  homes;  before  eleven 
o'clock  on  Monday  morning  she  was  reading  an  argu 
ment  to  Wm.  II.  Yanderbilt  that  clinched  his  convic 
tions  that  the  fare  on  the  one  line  of  cars  then  crossing 
the  continent  was  much  too  high,  and  must  be  reduced. 

*  The  great  temperance  cause  had  not  then  made  it  an  emblem. 


JEAN  STUDYING  MEDICINE  225 

"  If  one  hundred  people  pay  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  apiece,  the  income  into  the  company's  treasury 
will  not  be  so  large  a  sum  as  one  thousand  people  car 
ried  for  one  hundred  dollars  apiece.  Also,  the  increase 
of  freight  is  an  immense  item,  when  the  increase  of 
travel  is  considered.  The  railroad  company  must  see 
the  great  advantage  if  the  question  is  fairly  brought 
before  them,  Mr.  Vanderbilt." 

"  I  will  see  to  that,"  said  he.  "  Will  you  take  this 
article  to  Mr.  Greeley,  tell  him  you  read  it  to  me,  and 
that  I  want  it  published  in  the  Ne.w  York  Tribune? 
It  is  the  best  article  ever  written  for  our  railroads, 
Madam.  Where  have  you  lived  all  this  time,  that  I 
never  heard  of  you  before  ? " 

"  I  was  born  in  this  state,  sir,  but  have  lived  nearly 
all  my  life  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  am  thoroughly 
conversant  with  the  country,  its  immense  possibilities, 
its  pressing  needs.  What  we  want  is  people.  It  takes 
people  to  build  cities,  towns,  and  develop  new 
countries." 

"I  know  it,"  said  he,  "and  I  have  been  trying  to 
get  railroad  men  to  reduce  the  fare  to  the  Pacific  Coast, 
but  heretofore  they  would  not  listen.  I  will  give  you 
the  names  of  four  leading  railroad  men.  You  see  them 
and  talk  to  them  as  you  have  to  me.  They  will  read 
this  in  the  Tribune,  and  at  our  next  meeting  of  the 
directors  in  two  weeks,  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  have  the 
fare  reduced  one  half  to  the  Pacific  Coast,  and,"  added 
he,  with  a  complacent  smile,  "I  think  I  have  some 
influence  with  railroad  men." 

The  great  railroad  magnate,  evidently  not  being 
willing  to  ask  favors  without  conferring  greater,  took 
a  small  card — a  pass  to  the  Pacific  Coast — and  writing 
her  name  and  his  own  upon  it,  handed  it  to  her, 
saying: 

"  Madam,  as  long  as  you  wish  it,  you  shall  travel 
free  on  any  railroad  or  steamer  line  while  you  write 
such  articles  as  that." 


226  THE    HEROINE    OF  '40. 

Jean  being  unsophisticated  in  railroad  passes,  and 
thinking  she  was  not  ready  to  go,  handed  the  card 
back.  By  the  pleased  and  puzzled  smile  upon  his 
countenance,  it  must  have  been  a  new  experience,  and 
he  returned  the  card  to  her,  remarking: 

"  You  had  better  keep  it." 

Jean  glanced  at  it  with  new  interest,  and  found  it  to 
be  good  for  a  year. 

Jean  saw  Mr.  Greeley;  he  looked  at  the  paper  and 
said:  "  Madam,  you're  a  writer;  this  shall  be  published, 
and  we  should  be  pleased  to  secure  you  as  a  correspond 
ent  from  the  Pacific  Coast  for  the  Tribune.'1  The  fare 
was  reduced  at  the  next  directors'  meeting,  one-third, 
not  one-half,  as  the  mighty  railroad  magnate  said  it 
should  be.  However,  they  were  greatly  rejoiced  at 
that  reduction,  as  people  soon  began  to  come  in  much 
larger  numbers,  and  the  increase  in  travel  was  great  in 
proportion;  being  now,  according  to  railroad  statistics, 
not  less  than  150,000  yearly. 

There  never  was  a  time  in  the  history  of  a  nation 
when  the  permanent  prosperity  of  a  people  seeking 
new  homes  was  so  secure  as  on  the  Pacific  Coast  at  the 
present  time.  The  railroad  facilities  are  something 
prodigious,  there  being  at  present  networks  of  railroads 
spanning  the  country,  hither  and  thither,  every  promi 
nent  point  boasting  of  its  railroad  center. 

This  gives  the  home-seeker  a  chance  to  see  the  ad 
vantage  of  all  points.  He  can  build  him  a  home  by 
the  sea,  or  perch  on  a  mountain-top,  nestle  in  a  valley 
or  spread  himself  all  over  a  vast  plain — if  he  has  money 
enough.  He  can  find  a  snug  little  spot  shut  in  and  sur 
rounded  by  lofty  mountains,  or  buy  a  ranch  and  stake 
out  a  town,  sell  lots  and  build  himself  a  city  according 
to  his  own  liking.  This  has  been  done  inside  of  a  year; 
but  if  one  cares  only  for  building  himself  a  home,  he 
can  see  the  whole  country  *  thousands  of  miles,  in  a 
month's  time,  of  the  choicest  land  under  the  sun,  with 
the  best  climate  in  the  world,  and  in  another  mouth's 
time  he  can  build  him  a  residence  in  the  latest  style, 


JEAN  STUDYING  MEDICINE.  221 

with  every  modern  improvement.  He  can  find  in  this 
country  some  of  the  best  architectural  designs  to  choose 
from  that  his  purse  or  good  taste  may  dictate,  and  in 
six  months,  green  lawns,  and  flowers  that  bloom  the 
year  round,  with  rare  tropical  plants,  will  beautify  the 
grounds;  and  in  a  short  time  his  happiness  and  suc 
cess  will  permeate  every  letter  he  writes  home  until 
not  a  long  time  will  elapse  when  he  will  have  all  his 
best  friends  and  neighbors  around  him,  enjoying  the 
delightful  sensation  of  living  in  a  new  world  of  his  own 
making. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

INTERVIEWING   MR.   GREELEY. 

When  Jean  called  at  the  Union  Square  League 
Rooms,  she  sent  her  card  in  to  the  editor  of  the 
New  York  Tribune.  On  it  was  written:  "Jean  Kern 
ing,  Salem,  Oregon,"  with  "Pacific  Coast"  in  the 
corner,  to  insure  her  being  properly  placed  in  the 
world. 

The  great  man,  who  was  a  few  days  after  nominated 
for  the  presidency  on  the  Democratic  ticket,  soon  strode 
into  the  gorgeous  apartment  that  Jean  had  been 
ushered  into  when  the  young  man  assured  her  Mr. 
Greeley  was  in,  and  would  see  her  soon.  Jean  was 
reveling  in  the  beauty  of  the  building;  the  wealth  and 
grandeur  of  its  furniture,  carpets,  draperies,  pictures, 
statuary,  everything  was  engrossing  her  attention,  when 
the  great  man  entered,  walking  like  one  absorbed  in 
thought.  His  manner  was  refined,  graceful,  self- 
possessed,  with  an  air  of  amiable  serenity,  characteris 
tic  of  great  men ;  but  there  was  a  pink  fiush  upon  his 
face  that  spoke  to  the  little  woman  of  science,  too  much 
nervous  excitement  for  healthy  conditions;  otherwise, 
a  remarkably  well-preserved  man  of  ripe  years.  He 
was  well  dressed,  but  plain,  quiet,  and  scrupulously 
neat,  there  being  nothing  conspicuous  about  his  dress, 
excepting  that  his  huge  feet  were  incased  in  a  rather 
coarse,  broad  shoe  that  looked  out  of  place  in  such  a 
place  as  the  Union  Square  League  Rooms,  but  would, 
our  Jean  thought,  be  a  perfection  of  comfort  and  appro 
priateness  in  a  corn-field.  He  bowed,  looking  at  Jean's 
card,  and  pointed  to  a  seat  near  him  while  seating 
himself.  Then  the  questions  opened  fire  and  the  sparks 


INTERVIEWING  MR.  GREELEY.  229 

flew  on  both  sides.  Jean  had  no  favors  to  ask,  no  fears 
to  control.  Two  freer  or  more  untrammeled  brains 
never  met  to  discuss  the  living  issues  of  the  day.  The 
great  philosopher  said  he  was  pleased  to  meet  a  woman 
so  well  versed  on  the  questions  of  such  interest  to  the 
people  and  so  conversant  with  the  Pacific  Coast.  But 
when  she  said,  "what  a  pity,  Mr.  Greeley,  our  fore 
fathers  had  not  planted  their  feet  on  Pacific  soil  instead 
of  on  Plymouth  Rock;"  then  a  battle  of  words  ensued, 
and  Mr.  Greeley  rose  and  walked  the  floor  and  put  his 
fingers  through  his  thin  locks.  "  Warm  climates 
make  people  lazy  and  indolent,  like  the  people  down 
South,"  said  he.  "  Is  the  South  anything  compared 
to  the  North?  This  country  would  never  have  been 
anything  had  it  not  been  for  the  severe  climate  that 
drove  men  to  work  like  heroes  to  save  them  from  us 
inclemency.  It  is  the  making  of  the  world  that  it  is 
compelled  to  struggle." 

"  Yes,  Mr.  Greeley,  you  can  tell  that  to  these  people, 
but  not  to  me,  who  have  lived  on  the  Pacific  Coast, 
and  know  where  a  people  can  work  the  whole  year 
round,  never  stopping  for  frost  or  snow,  or  blizzards, 
and  where  the  trees  and  grain  and  vegetables  grow 
the  whole  year  round,  that  the  opportunities  are  bet 
ter  for  the  welfare  of  the  people  and  for  growing 
rich  than  where  they  are  interrupted  so  often.  Was 
there  ever  another  spot  on  the  earth  where  people 
have  progressed  as  rapidly  as  on  the  Pacific  Coast? 
Was  there  ever  a  city  built  so  thoroughly,  rapidly  and 
magnificently  as  San  Francisco  ?  The  climate  evi 
dently  is  not  warm  enough  to  make  the  people  indolent 
there,  Mr.  Greeley." 

"Yes,  but  it  was  the  gold  mines  that  built  San 
Francisco." 

"  No  matter  what  helped  to  build  it,  Mr.  Greeley, 
it  stands  as  a  monument  of  Pacific  Coast  pluck,  en 
ergy  and  ability,  and  didn't  it  take  pluck  and  ener 
gy  to  dig  the  gold  from  the  mines,  Mr.  Greeley? 
They  grow  from  fifty  to  sixty  bushels  of  wheat  to 


230  THE   HEROINE    OF  '40. 

the  acre.  Doesn't  that  require  some  energy?  I  see 
that  our  white  wheat  brings  the  highest  market  price 
in  London  and  New  York.  Doesn't  it  take  some 
ability  to  do  that? 

"Are  you  sure,"  asked  Mr.  Greeley,  "that  your 
figures  are  correct  about  growing  fifty  or  sixty  bushels 
of  wheat  to  the  acre?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Jean,  "I  have  measured  it  with 
my  own  hands,  and  sold  it  for  five  dollars  a  bushel  in 
'51  and  '52,  and  under  such  circumstances,  I  would  be 
likely  to  know." 

Mr.  Greeley  remarked:  "You're  a  writer,  madam; 
we  want  you  as  correspondent  from  the  Pacific  Coast, 
giving  us  accounts  of  its  products,  climate,  soil  and 
its  possibilities  for  home-making." 

Jean  accepted  the  proposition,  and  was  duly  installed 
as  correspondent  from  the  Pacific  Coast  to  the  New 
York  Tribune. 

Jean  then  told  him  about  her  interview  with  Wm. 
H.  Vanderbilt,  and  that  he  had  promised  to  reduce 
the  fare  from  New  York  to  San  Francisco.  Greely 
replied  that  he  was  glad,  as  the  fare  had  been  abso 
lutely  exorbitant  from  the  first. 

"I  should  think  that  if  you  had  used  your  influence 
toward  getting  the  rates  reduced,  it  would  have  been 
a  greater  inducement  for  the  people  to  go  West  than 
your  advice  to  go  West." 

Mr.  Greely,  with  a  quizzical  smile,  asked:  "  Why 
don't  37ou  aak  me  if  I'm  in  favor  of  woman's  suffrage? 
All  the  other  women  do.  You  are  working  like  a 
man,  and  accomplishing  your  work.  You  are  getting 
enough  support  from  us  men  to  carry  your  points,  and 
you  haven't  said  anything  about  woman's  rights, 
either.  You  have  brought  the  biggest  questions 
that  ever  a  women  asked  me  to  aid  her  in,  and  I  have 
promised  the  support  of  the  Tribune,  before  you  ask 
for  it,  and  will  not  go  back  on  my  word." 

"Yes,  but,  Mr.  Greeley,  I  have  asked  the  support 
of  Mr.  W.  H.  Vanderbilt,  and  ask  yours  now,  in  get- 


INTERVIEWING  MR.  GREELEY.  "231 

ting  a  land  law  passed,  giving  women  a  right  to  take 
up  government  land  for  homesteads  the  same  as  men, 
and  I  want  the  Tribune  to  give  the  question  the  strong 
est  support  that  it  can." 

"  Have  you  read  the  Almanac  ?  "  inquired  Mr. 
Greeley. 

"Read  the  Almanac?"  queried  Jean.  "What 
could  the  Almanac  do  toward  inducing  the  govern 
ment  to  pass  a  land  law  for  women  ?  "  and  she  looked 
with  her  scientific  eye  into  the  face  of  the  philosopher, 
thinking  his  political  aspirations  had  turned  his  head 
a  little.  Then  in  a  high  key  almost  akin  to  a  whine, 
he  said: 

"  My  Almanac;  I  have  published  the  land  laws  in  it, 
and  if  you  have  not  read  it,  you  get  one  and  read  it." 

"  Oh,  yes,  since  you've  mentioned  it,  I  remember  to 
have  read  it  thoroughly,  and  it  stirred  my  temper  to 
think  the  government  would  give  all  the  land  to  its 
men  and  none  to  its  women." 

And  Mr.  Greeley  said: 

"  Of  course,  it's  a  great  injustice." 

Jean  Reming  said  she  thought  she  had  influence 
enough  to  go  to  Washington  and  get  the  bill  passed. 
That  Mr.  Vanderbilt  had  promised  to  write  to  Senator 
Conkling,  who  was  at  that  time  perhaps  the  most  in 
fluential  man  in  the  Senate. 

Mr.  Greely  then  said  he  had  been  invited  to  talk  to 
the  State  Agricultural  Society,  in  Cooper  Institute, 
two  weeks  from  that  time,  and  if  she  would  prepare 
a  paper  on  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  consent  to  come  and 
read  it,  he  would  be  glad  to  introduce  her.  Jean  could 
not  promise  until  she  had  consulted  some  of  her  friends. 
Her  ambitious  friends  decided,  however,  that  it  was  an 
opportunity  she  could  not  afford  to  decline,  and  she 
wrote  Mr.  Greeley  she  would  be  prepared. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

INTRODUCED     BY    MR.    GREELEY     TO     THE     AGRICULTURAL 
SOCIETY,  COOPER   INSTITUTE,  NEW   YORK   CITY. 

At  the  appointed  time,  after  listening  to  the  thrilling 
eloquence  and  stirring  truths  of  what  Mr.  Greeley  knew 
about  agriculture  and  the  welfare  of  the  people,  Jean 
Kerning,  with  her  paper  in  hand,  was  introduced  to  the 
audience. 

Mr.  Greeley  had  made  the  remark,  in  his  speech,  that 
if  any  man  told  them  that  they  could  go  to  the  Pacific 
Coast  and  raise  stock  during  winter,  without  food  or 
shelter,  that  they  could  say  to  the  man  "  You  lie." 

The  first  words  that  Jean  uttered  were: 

"  I  am  glad  that  Mr.  Greeley  has  left  a  chance  for  a 
woman  to  say  that  she  has  lived  on  the  Pacific  Coast 
for  twenty  years,  her  family  having  been  stock  raisers, 
and  that  the  cattle  had  been  fat  and  sleek  all  winter 
with  no  other  shelter  than  the  broad-spreading  forests 
afford,  and  no  other  food  than  the  wild  luxuriant 
grasses." 

The  audience  here  applauded  to  the  echo,  proving 
that  they  believed  what  was  being  told  them. 

Jean  had  clipped  a  few  items  from  the  army  reports 
of  the  old  Indian  fighter,  General  Harney,  where  he 
said  they  had  gone  into  camp  late  in  November,  with 
their  horses  thin  and  tired  out,  and  turned  them  all 
out  on  the  wild  grasses,  and  they  were  rolling-fat  in  the 
spring,  ready  for  marching.  Then  she  read  quite  a 
lengthy  paper  about  crossing  the  plains  and  the  gran 
deur  of  the  Pacific  coast.  This  is  the  paper : 

"  Having  come  east  this  fall  to  complete  my  medical 
studies,  while  in  attendance  at  the  colleges  and  hos- 


INTRODUCED  BY  MR.  GREELEY.  233 

pitals,  mingling  with  the  people,  I  necessarily  come 
in  contact  with  the  two  extremes  of  labor  and  cap 
ital,  poverty  and  wealth.  The  ignorance  of  the 
people  in  reference  to  our  glorious  country,  and  their 
eagerness  to  become  acquainted  with  it,  are  equally 
remarkable.  They  know  something  of  California,  but 
Oregon  and  "Washington  are  mythlands  they  never 
heard  of — though  when  it  comes  to  'Pugget  Sound,' 
as  they  call  it,  they  can  enlighten  me,  especially  the 
railroad  men.  I  find  the  people  eager,  anxious  and 
hungry  for  information,  and  am  importuned  on  all 
sides,  particularly  by  women.  After  living  so  long 
in  the  Pacific  wilds,  I  am  alike  anxious  to  get  a  peep 
into  the  mysteries  of  your  great  city  and  feel  its  throb 
bing  pulse.  I  have  visited  the  factories  and  workshops 
where  thousands  of  unmarried  women  are  employed. 
I  must  wear  about  me  a  Pacific  Coast  air,  for  wher 
ever  I  go  women  seem  to  instinctively  recognize  me 
as  coming  from  the  Pacific  Coast.  Their  questions 
are  so  many  and  varied,  that  in  private  conversation  to 
answer  them  all,  would  be  a  greater  task  than  I  care 
to  undertake,  even  for  the  sake  of  my  much-loved  sec 
tion  and  the  enlightenment  of  my  fellow- women,  for 
whom  I  feel  willing  to  make  any  reasonable  sacrifice. 
So  I  consented  to  accept  an  invitation  from  the  Hon. 
Horace  Greeley,  who  is  a  candidate  for  the  Presidency, 
to  meet  Mm  and  you  in  Cooper  Institute,  and  in  a  brief 
address  give  you  a  few  facts  in  regard  to  our  country 
and  some  of  its  capabilities,  the  hardships  that  the 
pioneers  endured,  with  the  present  easy  facilities  for 
making  the  trip  across  the  plains.  Now  we  can  ride 
in  palace  cars,  on  cushioned  seats,  and  be  whirled 
across  the  continent  in  the  incredibly  short  space  of 
seven  days. 

"  Years  ago,  before  the  Union  Pacific  was  thought  of, 
the  stalwart,  sturdy  men  of  the  West  —  the  bravest, 
grandest  men  that  ever  did  a  noble  act — huddled  their 
women  and  children  into  ox-wagons,  taking  with  them 
bread,  beans  and  bacon  for  a  six  months'  trip.  The 


234  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

starting-point  for  these  pioneers  was  on  the  banks  of 
the  Missouri  river,  opposite  St.  Joseph.  Here  they 
organized  into  companies  of  two  or  three  hundred,  for 
mutual  protection  against  the  hostilities  of  the  Indians 
through  whose  almost  unexplored  territories  they  had 
to  pass.  At  this  point  of  the  Missouri  river  they  bade 
farewell  to  their  homes,  government,  friends  and  civi 
lization,  and  moved  on  with  slow  and  steady  march  to 
the  goal  of  their  destination — the  glorious  sunset  land 
bordering  on  the  Pacific  Coast.  The  land  of  towering 
mountains,  big  trees  and  delightful  valleys,  where  the 
flowers  bloom  every  month  in  the  year;  where  the 
sleek  cattle  feed  all  the  year  round,  without  thought 
of  shelter  other  than  the  broad-spreading  forests  af 
ford.  Here  they  came  and  took  possession  of  the 
virgin  soil  and  inherited  it;  they  and  their  sons  and 
their  daughters,  under  the  flag,  forever.  They  were 
as  dead  to  the  friends  left  behind,  who  had  scarce  a 
faint  hope  of  ever  hearing  of  them  again  alive.  And 
should  they  be  murdered  by  the  Indians  it  would  be 
only  by  the  merest  chance  they  would  ever  hear  of  it. 
Mothers  folded  their  little  ones  to  their  breasts  and 
silently  offered  a  prayer  to  that  God  who  led  Moses 
through  the  wilderness  to  the  promised  land.  Men, 
with  a  sharp  crack  of  their  bull-whips,  cried  in  a  loud, 
clear  tone:  '  Whoah,  haw !  whoah,  haw ! '  to  the  mute 
brutes  by  their  sides,  to  prove  to  each  other,  and  their 
own  hearts,  too,  that  they  were  as  unfaltering  as  their 
voices. 

"  These  journeys  were  usually  commenced  about  the 
first  of  April,  and  if  no  serious  delay  occurred,  ended 
about  the  last  of  October  or  late  in  November;  but 
now  and  then  a  belated  party  was  overtaken  by  the 
deep  snows  in  the  mountains,  and  of  course,  all  per 
ished. 

"  These  were  trips  to  try  men's  souls,  and,  under  the 
most  favorable  circumstances,  glorious  for  developing 
pluck  in  a  fellow.  Woe!  to  the  poor  craven  who 
started  without  a  good  supply.  He  might  as  well 


INTRODUCED  BY  MR.  GREELEY.       285 

have  forgotten  his  bacon  and  beans  or  his  bowie-knife. 
There  were  mountains  to  climb  where  team  after  team 
of  oxen  must  be  doubled  to  pull  up  one  wagon.  There 
were  huge  points  of  rock  to  be  clambered  round,  over 
which  men  joined  hands  and  literally  carried  the 
wagons.  There  were  steep  mountain  sides  to  go  down, 
where  the  wagons  were  lowered  by  ropes;  there  were 
wild,  roaring,  rapid  rivers  to  be  crossed,  with  wagon 
beds  corked  tight  for  boats.  There  were  bridges  to 
build,  forests  to  fell  to  make  passes  through  mountain 
gorges.  There  were  midnight  vigils  to  keep,  standing 
guard,  for  the  Indiana  to  shoot  or  scalp  you  just  as  they 
chose.  Vast  herds  of  wild  buffalo  came  thundering 
over  the  plains  with  their  thick  short  horns  and  shaggy 
manes,  and  their  tails  raised  high  in  air  just  as  you 
have  seen  them  in  the  pictures.  They  must  be  warded 
off  from  making  a  charge  right  through  their  ranks 
and  stampeding  the  cattle.  There  were  matinees  and 
evening  concerts  given  free  of  charge  by  prowling 
wolves,  whose  faintest  howl  would  send  the  soul  of  a 
coward  shivering  to  his  boots.  There  were  marches 
to  be  made,  over  sands  too  hot  for  man  or  beast  under 
the  scorching  rays  of  a  noon-day  sun,  and  so  must  be 
made  in  the  cool  of  the  evening  and  through  the  long 
night. 

"  I  well  remember  one  of  these  long  marches.  Some 
times  they  lasted  for  days  without  water,  except  that 
we  carried  with  us  in  casks.  My  father  crossed  the 
plains  twenty  years  in  advance  of  the  Union  Pacific 
Railroad,  and  he  vowed  that  for  the  accommodation  of 
his  wife  and  little  ones,  he  would  stick  to  the  family 
carriage  and  his  tried  and  trusty  horses  until  the 
Indians  stole  them.  On  this  occasion,  when  the  men 
were  worn  out  with  fatigue  and  loss  of  sleep,  several 
of  them  sickened  and  could  hold  out  no  longer,  and 
here  the  women  came  to  the  rescue.  I  was,  at  that 
time,  a  mere  child.  The  reins  of  the  old  family  car 
riage  were,  with  its  precious  freight,  intrusted  to  my 
care.  I  had  held  the  reins  and  guided  them  with 


236     *  THE    HEROINE    OF   '49. 

safety  over  difficult  places,  in  the  day-time,  but  to  take 
charge  of  them  at  night,  lighted  save  by  a  dim  star 
light  over  a  trackless  road,  all  untried  for  a  year,  re 
quired  a  piece  of  masterly  skill  that  I  would  have 
gladly  resigned  to  some  masculine  hand.  Father  said: 
'Courage,  my  child,'  as  he  handed  me  the  reins,  'the 
horses  know  your  voice,  and  will  obey  your  lightest 
touch.  They'll  keep  the  road.  Hold  a  tight  rein 
when  you  go  down  a  steep  place — that's  all.  The  men 
are  awfully  sick,  and  I  am  afraid  one  poor  fellow  will 
die  before  morning.' 

"I  did  hold  a  tight  rein  and  trusted  in  God  and  the 
horses,  and  must  have  had  a  little  faith  in  my  own 
puny  strength,  by  the  way  I  braced  my  feet  and  pulled 
back  as  we  went  down  the  steep  places. 

"I  remember,  too,  how  the  encouraging  words  of  our 
brave  captain  cheered  us  as  he  rode  back  and  forth 
along  the  lines,  and  how  eagerly  the  almost  famished 
cattle  would  have  rushed  headlong  down  the  mountain 
side,  when  they  came  in  sight  of  the  winding  river  that 
lay  in  the  dim  distance  below.  Thus  we  traveled  on, 
constantly  meeting  new  dangers  and  surmounting  new 
difficulties,  though  on  the  way  we  crossed  rolling 
prairies  where  the  sweet  grasses  grew  luxuriantly.  I 
gathered  the  pretty  wild  Sowers  and  twined  them  in 
wreaths  for  my  hair  as  I  saw  the  Indian  maidens  do. 
We  were  beguiled  by  the  song  of  birds,  fragrance  of 
fair  flowers,  the  balmy  air,  and  the  clear,  cool  waters 
of  the  pebbly  brooks;  and  such  a  sky  !  with  its  many- . 
tinted  fleecy  clouds.  We  were  many  times  compelled 
to  acknowledge  that  this  was  more  like  paradise  than 
anything  we  had  hoped  to  find  on  earth,  and  yet  we 
could  not  tarry  long  to  enjoy  these  scenes,  for  this  was 
the  hunting-ground  of  many  valiant  Indian  tribes  who 
were  at  that  time  untainted  by  civilization,  or  we  could 
never  have  passed  through  their  country  unmolested, 
killing  their  game;  and  leaving  destruction  in  our  wake. 
For  our  hunters,  with  unerring  aim,  took  pride  in  bring 
ing  down  their  game:  the  buffalo,  the  monarch  of  the 


INTRODUCED  BY  MR.  GREELEY.  237 

plain;  the  fleet-footed  deer,  the  bright-eyed  antelope, 
sage  hen  and  squirrel,  nor  sometimes,  I  fear,  left  un 
harmed  the  sociable  and  amiable  little  prairie-dog. 

"My  mother,  a  woman  of  forty,  and  I,  a  mere  child, 
would  often  sit  down  to  rest,  philosophize  and  feast  on 
the  beauties  around  us.  We  would  select  building 
sites  just  where  we  would  like  to  live  all  our  days  if 
there  were  only  people  enough  to  take  possession  and 
hold  it.  People  enough  to  take  possession  and  hold  it 
— 'Ay!  there's  the  rub/  JSTow,  Mr.  Greeley  says,  the 
people  won't  go  and  live  in  isolated  homes.  He  has 
been  telling  them  to  go  West  all  along,  but  they  won't 
do  it.  They  want  to  be  pent  up  and  crowded  in  these 
great  cities.  A  finer  truth  he  never  spoke.  People  do 
want  to  be  crowded.  I  own  I  want  to  be  crowded  a 
little  myself.  I  have  had  too  much  elbow-room  all  my 
life  on  the  Pacific  Coast.  What  we  need  is  people  to 
come  in  crowds,  in  flocks,  like  birds  migrating.  What 
could  one  man  do  all  alone  on  a  sand-bar  in  the  middle 
of  the  Pacific  Ocean?  What  success  would  Mr. 
Greeley  have  with  his  printing-press  out  West  a  hun 
dred  miles  from  everybody  else.  What  could  he  have 
done  right  here  on  Manhattan  Island  two  hundred 
years  ago.  It  takes  people  to  build  cities  and  develop 
the  resources  of  a  country.  I  am  a  native  of  New 
York  State,  but  the  Pacific  Coast  is  the  land  of  my 
adoption.  I  love  it  for  its  just  and  equal  laws,  for  its 
recognition  of  the  claims  of  women.  Men  cannot  help 
but  be  brave  and  gallant  and  just,  who  breathe  such 
pure  air  and  look  upon  such  grand  and  sublime  scenery! 
I  know  what  a  fine  thing  it  is  for  women  to  own  land  in 
their  own  right.  I  was  one  of  those  fortunate  women 
who  held  three  hundred  and  twenty  acres  of  land  under 
the  donation  act  of  1851.  I  have  seen  the  good  effects  of 
that  law  among  my  countrywomen.  I  have  seen  reck 
less  husbands  squandering  in  bad  speculations  all  their 
acres,  broken  and  disheartened  with  their  misfortunes, 
move  right  over  to  the  wife's  half  section,  which  was 
sacred  from  the  rude  touch  of  the  sheriff,  and  com- 


238  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

mence  life  anew  in  the  cultivation  of  the  soil,  feeling 
that-somehow  it  was  right  after  all  that  the  old  bird 
should  be  mistress  of  her  own  nest. 

^ "  One  of  the  faults  of  the  donation  act  was  that  it 
did  not  extend  over  a  long-enough  term  of  years.  Such 
a  law  in  all  the  territories  to-day  would  open  up  the 
millions  of  wild  acres  faster  than  railroads,  and  the  land 
wouldn't  all  fall  into  the  hands  of  greedy  corporations. 
The  act  expired,  I  think,  in  1858,  just  about  the  time 
people  began  to  find  out  there  was  such  a  law.  If 
there  is  anything  really  obscure  on  earth,  that  does 
not  shed  one  ray  of  light  on  the  people,  it  is  some  of 
the  enactments  of  Congress.  I  believe  we  were  more 
hopeful  then  of  the  country's  rapid  settlement  than  we 
are  to-day.  And  again,  by  the  telegraph  wire  we 
heard  the  sound  of  the  last  stroke  that  connected  the 
East,  with  its  toiling  millions,  with  the  mighty  West. 
Our  heart-beats  quickened  as  we  thought  of  the  beau 
tiful  homes,  thriving  villages  and  growing  cities  that 
would  spring  up,  before  the  smoke  of  the  wigwam 
scarcely  died;  and  after  waiting  and  wondering  why 
the  people  did  not  come,  we  consoled  ourselves  by 
thinking  our  land  was  so  delightful  it  was  like  that 
other  *  bourne  from  whence  no  traveler  returns ' — a 
land  of  gold,  sunshine  and  showers;  where  the  brave 
free  spirits  are;  where  the  green  sward  of  the  fields 
and  the  groves  afford  a  soft  carpet  for  our  feet;  where 
flowers  spring  up  as  thick  as  the  stars  of  heaven,  all 
bespangled  with  the  heavy  dews  of  evening;  where 
the  big  red  apples  grow;  where  the  rich,  mellow 
earth  yields  its  sixty  or  seventy-five  bushels  of  wheat 
to  the  acre,  and  where,  if  our  eastern  farmers 
could  be  transplanted,  they  would  think  they 
were  in  the  Garden  of  Eden;  where  the  moun 
tains  climb  higher,  with  their  eternal  snow  eaks 
nearer  the  throne  of  Him  who  spoke  them  into 
being.  Our  rivers  are  deeper,  swifter  and  clearer, 
and  afford  us  purer  and  colder  water  to  drink,  fresh 
from  the  snowy  mountains,  than  any  in  the  world,  to 


INTRODUCED  BY  MR.  GREELEY.  239 

say  nothing  of  the  innumerable  springs  that  bubble  up 
at  intervals  all  over  the  land.  Were  there  ever  finer 
facilities  offered  for  farms?  There  is  room  enough  in 
the  valleys  of  the  Willamette,  Sacramento  and  San 
Joaquin  to  supply  a  million  people  with  better  facilities 
for  living  than  the  same  space  east  of  the  Rocky  Moun 
tains.  Our  rivers  afford  such  excellent  mill  privileges; 
and  then  our  inexhaustible  forests  of  fir,  pine  and 
cedar,  oak,  ash  and  maple.  Why,  the  staunchest  ships 
that  sail  the  seas  will  yet  be  built  from  the  timber  of 
these  forests.  Ships  that  will  sail  in  and  out  of  our 
peaceful  harbors  laden  with  the  wealth  of  the  world. 
And  such  a  climate !  with  the  rolling  hills,  the  undu 
lating  valleys,  the  cool  nights,  the  bracing  air,  and  pure 
water,  the  very  sanitarium  of  the  nation.  It  can  never 
be  unhealthful  there!  And  only  to  think  how  the  poor 
farmers  down-east  have  to  work  enriching  and  recu 
perating  their  exhausted  soil  with  gypsum,  and  bring 
ing  whole  ship-loads  of  guano  from  the  islands  of  the 
Pacific,  and  building  stone  fencing  round  stony  farms, 
making  room  on  the  little  patches  here  and  there  to 
grow  a  meager  subsistence.  Why,  I  have  heard  them 
tell  of  putting  earth  on  the  sunny  side  of  a  rock  to  grow 
a  hill  of  corn!  In  our  county  they  would  have  notbing 
to  do  but  to  plow  the  ground,  sow  the  seed,  and  reap 
the  golden  harvest.  I  have  taken  up  the  dear  earth  in 
my  hand  and  examined  it,  to  see  if  it  was  really  just 
such  soil  as  grew  the  brightest  flowers  at  home  in  my 
corner  of  the  garden. 

"I  have  laid  my  heart  on  the  bosom  of  old  mother 
earth  and  wept  like  a  tired  child  on  its  mother's  breast; 
not  because  I  had  conquered  it,  and  there  were  no 
more  conquests  to  make,  as  Alexander  did;  but  because 
the  ground  was  lying  idle  there  that  should  yield  such 
harvests  to  the  people,  and  they  crowded  here  in  the 
great  cities,  starving  to  death,  slowly  starving,  yet  none 
the  less  surely,  while  hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres  of 
arable  land  are  only  waiting  to  be  tilled  by  the  hus 
bandman,  to  yield  the  richest  reward. 


240  THE    HEROINE    OF  '49. 

"In  the  name  of  humanity  why  don't  Congress  donate 
these  lands  to  the  half- fed  millions  toiling  in  the  great 
cities  for  barely  bread  enough  to  keep  their  souls  in 
their  bodies,  and  make  an  appropriation,  if  necessary, 
to  assist  these  miserable  poor  in  getting  on  to  these 
lands !  As  a  question  of  economy,  is  it  not  cheaper  to 
place  men  and  women  on  a  firm  basis  where  they  can 
make  their  own  living,  than  to  keep  them  crowded 
together,  overworked  and  half-starved  until  out  of 
sheer  desperation  they  commit  some  crime  and  then 
shut  them  up  to  punish  them. 

"  Some  one  has  said :  '  It  costs  more  to  catch  one 
thief,  convict  and  thoroughly  punish  him  than  to  feed 
twenty  honest  men.1 

"  Society  and  the  churches  are  doing  a  noble  work  in 
gathering  up  the  poor  little  unfortunates,  building 
immense  charity-homes,  educating  and  trying  to  save 
them  from  the  evil  influences  that  are  forever  contami 
nating  the  good  there  is  in  the  innocence  of  childhood, 
saving  them  out  of  the  miry  cesspools  of  our  great 
cities;  and  yet  this  loving  charity  is  not  deep  enough 
to  quite  reach  the  case  as  our  innumerable  prison-pens 
do  testify.  The  wise  Channing  has  said : 

«  «There  is  a  duty  higher  than  to  build  alms-houses 
for  the  poor,  and  that  is  to  save  men  from  being  de 
graded  te  the  blighting  influence  of  an  alms-house.' 
And  the  way  to  save  men  is  to  give  them  plenty  of  room 
on  God's  broad  earth.  If  a  hundred  and  sixty  acres 
won't  allure  them,  give  them  three  hundred  and  twenty. 
That  will  redeem,  elevate,  ennoble  and  save  them  from 
gaunt  misery  and  disease,  from  moral  turpitude,  and 
crimes  more  horrible  to  endure  than  death  itself.  Why 
should  human  beings  be  pent  up  in  these  large  cities, 
like  cattle  in  a  pen,  fed  on  husks,  when  there  is  plenty 
in  their  father's  household  and  they  know  it?  "We 
boast  of  our  charities  while  we  are  stealing  all  the  rose 
ate  glow  of  health  from  the  cheeks  of  youth  and 
beauty,  crushing  out  all  the  energies  of  ambitious  youth 
and  prostrating  the  towering  strength  of  manhood. 


INTRODUCED  BY  MR.  GR1ELE1T. 

Many  a  brave  and  noble  fellow  has  escaped  this  fate 
by  going  West;  but  alas  !  he  has  had  to  bear  the  heart 
ache  of  a  life  all  alone.  Many  a  sweet,  pure  girl,  with 
the  silvery  threads  creeping  into  her  once  golden-brown 
curls,  is  sighing  and  saying,  'Ah  me!  he  is  gone.'  And 
if  ever  those  waiting,  longing,  loving  souls  should  meet 
the  brave  fellows  beyond  the  Bocky  Mountains,  will  not 
the  hill-tops  and  valleys  resound  to  the  heart-throbbing 
raptures  of  love  ?  I  do  not  believe  that  God  ever  in 
tended  that  so  many  men  should  live  on  the  Pacific 
Coast  without  wives,  and  so  many  women  here  without 
husbands.  The  men  want  wives  to  share  with  them 
the  wealth  and  grandeur  and  happiness  that  is  in  store 
there  for  all  who  work  for  it." 

Thus  Jean  closed  her  speech,  and  if  the  sea  of  up 
turned  faces  were  eager  before,  they  were  clamorous 
now.  Where  they  asked  one  question  before,  they 
asked  a  hundred  now,  and  for  one  invitation  to  lecture 
she  now  received  fifty.  Their  attention  was  awakened 
and  their  inquisitiveness  aroused;  and  letters  came  pour 
ing  in  by  the  hundreds.  Jean  sent  the  letters  all  off  to 
the  Oregon  Legislature  then  in  session.  The  question 
of  immigration  came  up  after  her  return,  and  a  bill  was 
introduced  to  encourage  it.  By  a  unanimous  vote,  Jean 
Eeming  was  elected  Immigration  Commissioner,  with  a 
small  salary.  These  letters  attracted  the  attention  of 
the  business  men,  who  saw  the  necessity  of  organizing 
immigration  bureaus. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

IN  THE  UNITED   STATES  SENATE. 

Before  Jean's  return  to  California,  she  went  to  Wash 
ington,  interviewed  President  Grant,  Senators  Conk- 
ling,  Sunmer,  and  a  perfect  constellation  of  brilliant 
minds  that  were  assembled  at  that  time  in  the  Senate 
of  the  United  States.  And  in  five  days'  time  she  had 
the  following  land  bill  for  women,  before  it  was 
revised  or  amended,  drawn  up  and  introduced  by 
Senator  Kelly  of  Oregon,  and  had  been  invited 
by  the  Senate  Committee  on  Public  Lands  to  come 
before  it  and  make  her  claim.  She  afterward  learned 
that  she  was  the  first  woman  ever  invited  to  speak 
before  one  of  the  congressional  committees.  The 
speech  must  have  been  somewhat  thrilling  and  pathetic, 
as  when  she  had  finished  there  was  not  a  dry  eye  among 
the  senators,  and  a  tear  glistened  on  her  own  lids. 
However,  she  was  successful,  and  the  bill  was  reported 
favorably  to  the  Senate. 

IN  THE  SENATE  OF  THE  UNITED  STATES,  MAT  4,  1872. 

Mr.  Pomeroy,  from  the  committee  on  Public  Lands, 
reported  the  following  bill  which  was  read  the  first  and 
second  times  and  recommitted  to  the  committee  on 
Public  Lands. 

A  bill,  supplementary  to  an  act  entitled  "An  act  to 
secure  homesteads  to  actual  settlers  on  the  public  domain." 

Be  it  enacted  by  the  Senate  and  House  of  Represent 
atives  of  the  United  States  of  America  in  Congress  as 
sembled,  that  every  woman,  whether  married  or  single, 
now  residing  in  the  State  of  Oregon,  or  in  any  one  of 
the  territories  of  the  United  States,  or  who  shall,  here 
after  become  such  resident  and  who  is  and  shall  be- 


JfN  THE   UNITED  STATES  SENATE.  243 

come  a  citizeu  of  the  United  States,  shall,  upon 
complying  with  the  provisions  of  this  act,  or  the  act  to 
which  it  is  supplementary,  be  entitled  to  a  tract  of 
land,  not  exceeding  one  quarter-section,  of  one  hun 
dred  and  sixty  acres  of  the  public  lands,  subject  to  pre 
emption  or  private  entry  in  such  state  or  territory  in 
which  she  may  reside. 

SEC.  2.  That  in  order  to  entitle  any  woman  mentioned 
in  the  preceding  section  to  such  tract  of  land,  she  shall 
reside  upon  and  cultivate  the  same  for  four  consecu 
tive  years,  or,  in  lieu  of  such  residence  and  cultivation, 
she  shall  reside  two  years  in  the  state  or  territory  in 
which  the  land  is  situate,  and  make,  or  cause  to  be 
made,  improvements  on  such  tract  of  the  value  of  two 
hundred  dollars,  by  erecting  buildings  and  fences,  or 
by  clearing  and  cultivating  the  same.  Instead  of  ac 
quiring  title  to  such  land  in  either  of  the  modes  herein 
before  prescribed,  she  may  do  so  by  paying  to  the  re 
ceiver  of  the  proper  land-office  the  sum  of  one  dollar 
for  each  acre  of  such  tract  of  land,  after  becoming  a 
resident  of  said  state  or  territory  in  which  the  land  is 
situate. 

SEC.  3.  That  any  woman,  desirous  of  acquiring  a  title 
to  land,  under  the  provisions  of  this  act,  may,  at  any 
time  after  she  becomes  a  resident  of  said  state,  or  of 
either  of  said  territories,  make  application  in  writing  to 
the  register  of  the  land-office  in  the  district  where  the 
lands  are  situate,  setting  forth  the  manner  in  which  she 
proposes  to  acquire  title  to  the  same,  and  specifying  the 
particular  legal  subdivision  of  land  which  she  claims; 
and  she  shall  also  state  in  her  application  that  the  said 
land  is  for  her  exclusive  use  and  benefit,  and  not,  either 
directly  or  indirectly,  for  the  benefit  of  any  other  per 
son  or  persons  whomsoever,  and  such  application  shall 
be  verified  by  her  oath  or  affirmation.  Upon  proving  to 
the  satisfaction  of  the  register  and  the  receiver  of  the 
.proper  land-office,  by  two  credible  and  disinterested  wit 
nesses,  and  also  by  the  affidavit  of  the  claimant,  that 
she  has  complied  with  the  requirements  of  this  act,  so 
far  as  residence  and  cultivation,  or  residence  and  im- 


214  THE   HEROINE    OP  '49. 

provements,  are  concerned,  or  upon  the  payment  to 
the  receiver  of  one  dollar  per  acre  for  such  land,  she 
shall  be  entitled  to 'a  patent  certificate  from  the  register 
and  the  receiver  for  the  tract  of  land  specified  in  her 
application;  and  if  the  same  shall  be  approved  by  the 
Commissioner  of  the  General  Land  Office,  she  shall  be 
entitled  to  a  patent,  in  her  own  right,  for  such  tract  of 
land.  And  if  she  be  a  married  woman  such  land  shall 
not  be  liable  to  be  sold  upon  execution,  or  in  any  way 
disposed  of  to  pay  the  debts  or  liabilities  of  her 
husband. 

SEC.  4.  That  in  case  of  the  death  of  any  woman  who 
shall  have  filed  her  application,  and  commenced  pro 
ceedings  to  obtain  a  title  to  a  tract  of  land  as  herein 
before  provided,  before  she  shall  have  complied  with 
the  requirements  of  this  act,  all  her  rights  shall  descend 
to  her  heirs  at  law,  unless  she  shall  otherwise  dispose 
of  the  same  by  will,  executed  according  to  the  laws  of 
the  state  or  territory  where  she  resided;  and  proof  of 
residence  and  cultivation  upon  the  land,  up  to  the  time 
of  her  death,  shall  be  sufficient  to  entitle  them  to  a 
patent  for  the  same.  But  if  the  decedent  shall  not 
have  made,  or  caused  to  be  made,  the  improvements, 
or  paid  the  money  herein  required,  it  shall  be  lawful 
for  such  heirs  or  devisees,  or  the  executor  or  adminis 
trator  of  the  estate  of  such  decedent,  to  make  the 
improvements  or  pay  the  money  to  the  receiver  as 
specified  in  this  act;  and  thereupon  such  heirs  or 
devisees  shall  be  entitled  to  a  patent  certificate  for  the 
tract  of  land. 

SEC.  5.  That  if,  at  any  time  after  filing  her  applica 
tion  as  required  by  this  act,  any  woman  entitled  to  the 
benefits  of  this  law  shall  cease  to  reside  upon  and 
cultivate  the  land  claimed  by  her  for  the  period  of  six 
months  at  any  one  time,  she  shall  forfeit  all  her  right 
to  the  same,  and  such  land  shall  revert  to  the  United 
States;  or  if  any  such  woman  shall  fail  to  make  the 
improvements  herein  required  upon  the  land  claimed  in 
her  application,  or  pay  the  money  for  such  land  for 
the  period  of  one  year  after  filing  the  same,  then  all 


IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  SENATE.  245 

her  rights  to  the  same  shall  become  forfeited  and  the 
land  revert  to  the  United  States. 

SEC.  6.  That  no  woman  shall  be  permitted  to  acquire 
title  to  more  than  one  quarter-section  of  land  under 
the  provisions  of  this  act;  and  the  commissioner  of  the 
General  Land  Office  is  hereby  required  to  prepare 
and  issue  such  rules  and  regulations,  consistent  with 
this  act,  as  shall  be  necessary  and  proper  to  carry  its 
provisions  into  effect;  and  where  not  otherwise  pro 
vided  in  this  act,  he  shall  be  governed  by  the  provisions 
of  the  act  to  which  this  is  supplementary,  so  far  as  the 
same  are  applicable. 

While  Jean  was  at  the  capitol,  a  funny  little  incident, 
that  has  never  yet  been  in  print,  occurred  in  consequence 
of  Jean's  not  understanding  the  full  force  of  our  demo 
cratic-republicanism.  She  supposed  that  greatness 
would  demand  some  pomp  and  ceremony,  even  in  free 
America.  Something  of  hero-worship,  or  servitude  of 
kingcraft,  or  something  of  that  kind,  must  have  taken 
possession  of  her  mind,  as  she  was  fully  imbued  with  the 
idea  that  to  insure  an  introduction  to  the  president  some 
senator  must  introduce  her.  She  accordingly  selected 
Senator  Gonkling  as  the  most  fitting  person  perhaps  in 
the  whole  senate  for  so  arduous  an  undertaking,  since 
she  had  had  a  letter  of  introduction  to  Senator  Conkling 
that  Mr.  Vanderbilt  had  promised  to  send  her,  and 
had  already  had  a  moment  s  conference  with  the  great 
senator.  It  happened  that  day  that  Jean  had  prepared 
her  toilet  with  extraordinary  care.  It  was  the  morning 
when  Conkling  was  fighting  the  meanness  of  some  small 
men  who  were  opposed  to  giving  government  land  to 
maimed  soldiers.  His  words  were  hurled  like  an  ava 
lanche,  burying  his  opponents  under  the  debris  of  his 
contempt,  forever  out  of  sight,  or  any  fear  that  their 
little  vote  would  damage  anybody  ever  again;  certainly 
not  the  brave  defenders  of  our  glorious  country  who 
had  lost  an  arm  or  a  leg  in  defense  of  our  homes. 

Jean  was  carried  away  with  his  eloquence,  and  when 
his  speech  was  ended,  she  sent  him  her  card  by  the 
page,  not  knowing  that  he  had  to  give  his  entire  at- 


246  THE    HEROIISfE    OF  '49. 

tention  to  the  intrigue  of  his  opponents;  supposing 
when  his  speech  was  ended  there  was  nothing  else  to 
do,  and  he  could  now  turn  his  whole  ability  to  intro 
ducing  her  to  the  President  of  the  United  States.  It 
was  the  greatest  occasion  of  her  life;  she  was  over 
whelmed  with  enthusiasm,  listening  to  the  glowing 
words  of  the  man  fighting  for  the  rights  of  his  fellow- 
men;  she  would  espouse  the  cause  of  her  sisters,  and 
fight  as  courageously  and  well. 

When  Jean  sent  her  card,  the  page  entered  a  mild 
protest,  saying  the  senator  was  very  much  engaged. 
Jean  insisted,  and  the  page  very  quietly  laid  the  card 
on  the  senator's  desk.  Conkling  took  no  notice;  he 
was  looking  a  thunderbolt  across  at  a  senator  who  was 
inquiring  how  a  man  with  only  one  arm  or  leg  could 
cultivate  the  soil?  Jean  was  disheartened;  she  won 
dered  if  such  creatures  would  pop  up  in  the  Senate- 
chamber  and  ask  if  it  was  possible  for  women  to  chop 
down  trees  or  plow  a  field?  She  was  becoming  restless, 
and  wanted  to  see  the  noble  Grant.  She  was  sure  he 
would  indorse  the  land  law  for  women.  She  sent  on 
another  card  and  another;  it  fluttered  to  the  floor. 
Conkling  caught  the  name  as  the  page  replaced  it  on 
the  desk;  he  listened  to  the  boy,  who  told  him  where 
the  lady  sat  waiting.  She  had  a  position  behind  a  cur 
tain  where,  unobserved,  she  could  survey  the  whole 
floor  of  the  Senate-chamber,  and  hear  every  word  that 
was  said.  The  senator  came  furiously  across  the  floor, 
saving:  "Madam,  don't  you  see  I  am  fighting  this 
bill  through?  I  will  work  for  you  when  the  time 
comes." 

"  Yes,  senator,"  said  Jean,  as  frightened  as  she  had 
ever  been  at  a  wild  Indian  on  the  Umpqua;  adding,  "  I 
wish  you  would  write  your  name  on  my  card  introduc 
ing  me  to  the  president." 

"Md  introduce  you  to  the  president!"  he  said,  with 
fire  flashing  from  his  eyes,  "lam  ten  times  as  big  a 
man  as  the  president  ever  was." 

This  electrified  Jean;  she  had  no  more  toadyism  to 
greatness.  In  an  hour's  time  she  was  chatting  away 


IN  THE  UNITED  STATES  SENATE.  247 

with  the  president  as  familiarly  as  any  old  farmer. 
She  told  him  what  Conkling  had  said. 

He  laughed  heartily,  saying:  "Did  he  say  that?" 
He  was  not  stung  by  it  a  particle,  only  good-naturedly 
amused. 

This  is  history.  Grant  told  Jean  to  say  to  any 
senator  that  required  that  much  encouragement  that  he 
would  not  veto  the  bill,  granting  women  land.  He  called 
his  editor,  introducing  Jean;  requested  him  to  see  that 
every  courtesy  was  extended  to  Mrs.  Reming  personally, 
and  the  land  law  especially.  "  I  am  in  favor  of  the 
land  law  and  also  in  favor  of  better  wages  for  women," 
he  said,  and  to  confirm  it,  he  told  a  little  incident  that 
happened  to  him.  "  When  I  was  a  young  man  in  the 
army,  stationed  at  Vancouver,  Oregon,  with  a  hundred 
dollars  a  month  salary  from  the  government,  one  day, 
our  servant,  Kitty  Ma  honey,  came  to  me  asking  to  have 
her  wages  raised.  '  Yes,  how  much  more  wages  do  you 
want  Kitty,'  said  I.  Hesitating  a  moment,  she  said, 
'Well,  sure,  Patrick  O'Finnigan,  that  made  so  much 
money  in  the  mines,  told  me  he  would  give  me  fifty 
dollars  a  month,  as  I  am  a  good  cook,  you  know,  but 
I'd  rather  stay  with  you — I  don't  like  to  leave  Mrs. 
Grant  and  the  childer.'  '  Oh,  well,  Kitty,  that  ismoro 
than  I  can  pay  you,  you  go  right  to  Mr.  Finnigan,  and 
I'll  help  Mrs.  Grant  do  the  work  myself.'  The  girl 
went,  and  we  were  without  a  servant  during  the  rest  of 
our  stay  at  Vancouver.1  Then  President  Grant  took  a 
piece  of  paper,  saying:  "The  greatest  objection  to 
women's  taking  up  public  lands,  is  the  isolation  that  it 
will  subject  them  to,  but  that  can  be  overcome  .  . 

in  this  way,"  marking   out  a  section  thus,  

the  dots  indicating  where  the  cabins  might  stand  for 
mutual  protection  and  society.  "Show  this  to  any 
objecting  senator,  and  say  that  I  drew  the  diagram  for 
you,"  he  said.  "  I  will  do  anything  in  my  power  to  as 
sist  you  in  securing  the  land  law  for  women;"  adding: 
"  As  this  is  your  first  visit  to  the  capitol,  perhaps  you 
would  like  to  see  the  conservatory,  where  there  are 
several  new  plants,"  and  calling  a  man,  he  requested 


248  THE  HEKOiNE  OF  '49, 

him  to  show  Jean  through  the  grounds.  The  plants 
looked  meager,  and  somewhat  dwarfed,  compared  with 
the  wild  grandeur  of  the  trees  and  flowers  of  the  Pacific 
Coast,  though  they  were  the  pride  of  the  capital,  and 
thousands  of  dollars  had  been  spent  on  their  culti 
vation. 

After  spending  a  few  weeks  at  the  capital,  Jean 
returned  home  to  the  bosom  of  her  family,  who  were 
as  rejoiced  to  meet  her  as  though  she  had  been  a  man, 
away  improving  her  mind  in  research  and  travel,  and 
working  for  the  public  good.  The  Miser  children 
declare  no  law  ever  divorced  them  from  their  mother. 
Time  obliterates  grief  as  well  as  joy,  and  thus  we  leave 
Jean  and  Mr.  Kerning  as  happy  a  pair  as  ever  were 
mated,  surrounded  by  their  merry,  promising  children, 
enjoying  the  blessings  of  their  California  home. 

Our  next  volume  will  give  a  full  account  of  the  chief 
characters  in  the  story,  excepting  those  who  have  gone 
to  the  other  side  and  left  us  no  direction. 

THE  END. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 


is  due  on  me  !<«••  «*-•  -  , 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 


ontneaaieiu  w 
Renewed  books  are  subject  toimmediaterecall. 


REC'D  LD 

SI?  2  01957 


LD  21-100m-6,'56 
(B9311slO)476 


General  Library     . 
University  of  California 
Berkeley 


M294158 


- 


